River of Ichor
by coolcat12345
Summary: Elyon is approaching her sixteenth year, and therefore getting ready for Meridian celebration of coming of age. And being queen , this means organizing and controlling a whole festival, while she is still struggling with adapting to unfamiliar world and being deserving and just ruler. Luckily, she has friends and family to support her. She could use less family, though. Really.
1. What we don't share

**Hi! Thanks for reading this, I hope you will like it, and please comment! This is story meant to be 50 % worldbuilding, 25 % dark humour and 15% messed up family angst. Hope it will work out. You can also find it on AO3 under same name, by handle avaloncat555. This first chapter is prologue, consisting of several vignettes by Phobos and Elyon.**

* * *

It still takes time getting used to everything, after all these years.

She was far too small, and sometimes she still feels so tiny and and failing, like grain of sand that plays at being desert. Meridian is so grand and great, for girl born and raised in tiny Heatherfield (part of her will forever remember to that tiny town, part of her will forever long for world without magic and danger). Even her room feels impossibly huge, and it even seems to her that sky is wider and sea deeper then on Earth.

She thinks she will never grow in her throne. That she will never learn to properly find way around her castle (her castle!). That she will never visit all places on Meridian, or understand it's phrases, or meet all various people that live there. Everything feels too tall and wide, and so rich and unfamiliar. Too often she feels like leaf in storm.

The crown is too heavy. Her dresses seemingly trail endlessly. Her hair hangs low. Doors she passes through are big enough for elephants to pass. Her castle rests as high as mountains, city below her seemingly fit only for ants. There is ring of stone behind it, in which she could place whole of moon, that allows people to portal themselves to other worlds. And still she remains short, remains slight and slender while everything rises far above her.

Inside her, light stronger and greater then Sun beats. It will help her carry the whole of Meridian.

* * *

His cell is bigger then he expected.

He will never allow his surprise to show, but he didn't expect it to be so spacious. Not nearly as great as his gardens, as his domain, rooms turned woods and meadows, but still bigger then burrows he would have given to his prisoners. It must be some poor attempt at subtle mockery, a concealed dig at him and his reign. Look how kind and better we are, to allow such comfort even to one such as yourself. We are good, we are just, even to monster such as yourself. let world see our queen's grace. Fools.

Were it him, he would give his prisoners barrows and holes. There would have barely been space to breathe, much less for bed (he doesn't sleep on it, as uncomfortable as he suspects it to be, because thankfully Elyon isn't _that_ gracious- he had been sleeping on earth for years, and that won't change now), or chamber pot. No, he would leave his prisoners to rot in holes, where pressure hurt their skulls and stone rubbed their backs, where they could barely breathe, where they would rot in their own filth, as stone and steel crushed them. Nothing as nice as this mockery.

Electric bars are nice touch, however.

So he hides in shadows, and waits. Were it small cell, guards would have been able to see him, and they would laugh and rejoice in his shame and humiliation. Like this, however, he can retreat in darkness and shade, and wait and plot. He can look at how spacious it is, and size of all cells, afforded to prisoners by Elyon's mockery, and collect his hatred and rage. She thinks she is being subtle and smart, ridiculing him and his rule like this, but she isn't. She just gives him more reasons to hate her, more anger to fuel and feed his desire for power. But she will pay for that when she gets out, oh yes. He will bury her so far below , where not even roots of oldest tree stretch. She will see how generous he can be.

* * *

She adapts slowly. But she adapts. In years that pass, like a snake she sheds her earthly life, sheds her girl-skin, to become queen and Light. It hurts, hurts worse then if she had all her bones stretched and all of her hair pulled out, but it is worth it. It hurt when she went on hiking with Taranee too, but view when she climbed on top of mountain was fascinating. Was worth it all.

Just because something is hard doesn't mean it isn't necessary. Change always hurts, but it is fundamental to growth. At least that is what Mrs. Lin, Oracle, her tutors all say. She wants to believe it, even if it sounds like old people's insufferable and useless advice and new age faux-tv-zen bullshit at same time. Still, she hopes they are right.

Nobody is born a queen, she is told. Every queen before her faced challenges, doubted herself. Elyon won't be first, and won't be last. Each new trial only strengthens her, each new ordeal only makes her wiser. History will remember her as queen who started off as facing one of greatest threats to universe at age of 13. And someday, she will look at all her struggles, and laugh at how terrible they seemed. Well, she hopes at least.

* * *

Adaptation is key. Key of everything. You can never be prepared enough, there is always chance for chaos to throw your plans in disarray. To be complacent is to be idiot, and suffer for it.

Seize the chance. take everything, anything, work with what you have been given. Anything can be used, everything can be repurposed. Let them come, let them imprison you thousand times, it is all good as long as you find a new way to escape.

So wait. Listen. Watch guards. Learn. Memorize. And prepare.

* * *

She wonders often how they will write about her. What will children of her subjects tell their grandchildren about her. Now she is Elyon, the reclaimed queen, rightful ruler returned from Earth. She has saved them twice by now, and she is kind. But as years pass, she knows people will realize she is doing bare minimum, and what if she isn't so good at managing anything? What if her laws and decisions turn out to be bad? What if history recalls her as weak, foolish queen, who knew nothing of Meridian, who might be stranger as well, who fell for obvious lies again and again, and was too naive and stupid to be of any use.

* * *

They tell stories about him even now, though they don't know that. Maybe some parents are ware, maybe some artist consciously pushed for it in futile attempt at subtle rebellion. Listen to stories they tell their brats, painting in their picture books. Look and search for witches, and compare. How image of wicked witch has changed from awful old man in rags, spitting blood and crooked teeth, to that of a beautiful man with sly words and cold eyes. Look at how long their hair always is. He wonders what will they say in future, how will they ridicule and declaw him. Take away his strength and magic, leave nothing but pretty face and lies.

* * *

There are lies everywhere. It seems she can't escape them. That is what evil is, she decides, nothing but lie. That is how it grows, by weakening you with it's claims and deceptions, and letting you give yourself over to it. But that is ok, because she has learned her lesson, even though it has been hard one, and now she knows she has people she can rely on. Who will forever stand by her side.

* * *

Everything is a lie. Everybody is liar, to others or even themselves. Once you learn that, world is much easier. You never accept what people tell you, you learn to expect betrayal at every turn. Lesson came too late, but now it sticks fully. And you learn how to lie as well, you learn what words you need to feed somebody to make them yours. And you learn how to dispose of people once you don't need them (properly, next time).

* * *

Once, she complained how small her family tree was. Now, she isn't sure whole park could be enough to properly fill it all out. She has found so many of them, or better yet, they found her. Her parents, of course, but Guardians and their families too, and rebels, Caleb and Vathek and all guards. It seems that wherever she goes there is somebody she can trust with her life, that there are so many people willing to risk their own lives for Elyon-Elyon brown, the girl who liked drawing and got A on math test, not Elyon Escanor, who wore heavy crown and brought back the Sun.

She can only hope she will prove worthy of such love.

* * *

He had only one sister, which _was_ horrible but Phobos found silver lining in fact that it was only one. His mother's fragile health led to her birthing only two children, instead of having small armies, as most of their cousins did. Dealing with that litter was horrible headache- nobody appreciated how much genealogy books you had to consult to make sure you disposed of them all. He was still sure a branch or two got away and was leading rebel cell in distant parts of Meridian. Though, to be honest, they weren't that bad before. He liked them well enough when he was child and there were family visits.

Nothing quite as fun as watching them cry once their beds were set on fire, or pets hanged, or hair woven in thickets of nettles... Ah, those joyful, easy days. He almost misses them.

* * *

She never knew her mother- her birth mother, that is. She doesn't even know how woman died, aside from obvious suspicions. She never even met her, or well at least not so she could remember. She doubts baby her thought of anything but being clean and fed. She didn't even know of Weira for some thirteen years, and yet she still misses her. She loves mom, Miriadel, but still it doesn't feel right. She should have known her birth parents, and that chance was forever taken away.

She still remembers false memory Nerissa had shown her, and how it seemed to cut her heart in tiny squealing pieces.

* * *

He remembers his mother's face, moments before light (and Light) went out of her eyes. He remembers how pale it was, and sweat on her forehead. He remembers bloodshot eyes and tears in corners and pupils shrunk until they were as small as seed of poppy, remembers saliva that pooled down her trembling lips and how her teeth glinted, remembers raspy, desperate breaths that left her as her hands shook and her chest slowed down, how her red hair fell over yellowing cheeks, how her neck fell down, as in broken doll.

He had never raised knife easier and held it tighter since that day.

* * *

She doesn't think of him at all. This is no lie, this is her victory and rebellion. She has seen him for what he is, a rose whose petals pale in comparison to his poisoned thorns, and he can never harm her properly. He is but a tiny stain on her life, an ugly rotting thing in world full of beauty and wonder. She ahs put him in cell twice and shall do so again and again if he escapes. She is stronger and better then him, more powerful then he will ever be, and she has nothing to fear. She has almost forgotten him, has left him in past to rot, and walked away, to world that deserved her attention. Mice in pantry are bigger worry to her now.

* * *

He thinks of her every day. It keeps him strong and ready and calm, thinking of his sister, longing for her screams, for her death. He listens and learns of all changes she made, and braids his hair, devising new torture for each strand. He think of how he will break her, how he will devour all Light inside her, how he will leave her out for weeds and vultures. Each day and each night, he recalls her face, and thinks of blood and bones showing.

* * *

There is so much to learn.

This is truly a whole new world, and she throws herself in learning about it. A mad hunger drives her, hunger for homeland denied and lost to her. She picks up it's language, and learns it's confusing letters, not stopping no matter how many times she seeks to weep because it is so strange to her, because it fits weirdly on her tongue, like something that was once part of her yet was thorn out, ache in her very bones. She learns of it's history, even unsavoury parts, and of it's art and flora and fauna, it's religion and customs, and it makes her want to cry and scream, happiness and loneliness colliding in her, for something she recognizes as hers yet so alien.

But her family is always there to understand and encourage her.

* * *

He despises this world.

There is no reason to his hate, no source. That is why he became tyrant, when he could have plotted to make himself seem as just and gentle ruler. He despises it's air and moons, despises people who walk it's face, the ground he stands on. Every word he hears is disgusting, every thing he lays eye on is false and boring. Only when it is all broken and dead and twisted can he appreciate it. Beauty is useless, and despair and ugliness make world worth it all.

He retreated in his garden before, all alone, and when he gets out he will make sure whole of Meridian becomes garden, all his.

* * *

Still panic rises in her when she pricks her fingers. Roses at least had been ruined for her, for she still remembers how throne chained her, remembers vines that wrapped themselves around her wrists, the thorn that dug in and seemed to scratch her very bones. She would rather bear knife in heart then pick up rose again.

She can almost remember how cold and empty she felt, once they drained Light out of her.

* * *

Pain is lovely. Nothing quite like pain to motivate people. And nothing like pain to please you, nothing like hearing the screams cut short and seeing faces twisting in agony. It can fuel man for century, pain can motivate anybody to become anything.

He holds his hands to bars, almost touching them, often, so he can feel energy sear and hurt across flesh, and _remember._

* * *

There is nothing like magic.

It is so much more then flying, then calling upon elements, then all those impressive tricks. It is something nestled in your heart, whispering always, always keeping you strong and hopeful, a miracle propelling you forward. even once she had been drained of it, as she felt as if all stars were snuffed out, spark of it remained inside her, promising there is something better ahead, that she can reach for and make possible for whole world.

Her magic came from her people, was theirs, power of all their hearts bound in one. That was what it was, and why she had to respect it, why she could never fail as long as it was held within.

* * *

Magic was power.

There were many kinds of power, but magic was greatest of them all. It was knowledge and energy and privilege, all in one. It was ability to bend world to your desires, to make impossible real. It was hungry and grasping and merciless, drawn from lives and souls and secrets. It was something afforded only to special ones, talent and knowledge and gift that couldn't be challenged. Not unless you were smart and ruthless and strong enough to claim it, no matter how they tried to stop you.

Blood on roses. That is where it came from.

* * *

_Magic was tool._

_Impressive tool, but still a tool. You could be greatest sorcerer in universe, and yet, if you were just a fool with head empty of anything useful, full of nonsenses and dreams., it would be worthless. You had to gather it, hold it close, and never reveal what you knew. You could sue it to cheat death and strangle fate, if you were smart. It was as beautiful as shine of gem, as essence of love, and as deadly as good lie, as painful truth._

_Magic could be stolen and hoarded. but it was useless if you didn't know how and to what to apply it._

* * *

**Thanks for reading, hope you liked it. Please comment and tell me what you'd like to see out of worldbuilding!**


	2. Meetings and memories

**Hi, thanks for reading, hope you will like it, please comment. This chapter consists of Elyon meeting new relatives she didn't know about before, and Phobos's less-than-rational thinking (excuse me, planning) in prison. From next chapter more action and worldbuilding will start. Again, also can be found on AO3.**

* * *

''Your Majesty... Thank you so much. I will try my best to prove deserving of this honor.'' Young woman knelt before Elyon, mousy brown braid swinging around, as she tried to cover the stain on her white robes.

''You already did, Lady Mirella.'' Elyon said, biting down instinct to drop protocol and to comfort young woman. But Lady Mirella paled and fled at any hint of familiarity with queen, terrified of breaking some obscure rule. Still, despite all anxieties, Elyon was sure she would make fine Mage.

After two years, they had new one. Finally, another step towards restoration.

There had always been a Mage on Meridian. Since Meridian became organized kingdom, there had been Mage. It was title and office that bequeathed a great responsibility and power. The Mage guarded Infinite City, which hid numerous secrets in it's bowels. And aside from being part of Royal Council, and traditionally Meridian ambassador to Kandracar, she led all of Meridian's thaumathurges.

Thaumathurges weren't same as sorceresses, just as botanists weren't same as gardeners. They weren't more powerful or wiser or important ( though some certainly thought so), simply dedicated to magic in more academic way. Those were women who weren't content with just doing magic and never questioning why it worked, who delved deep in study of metaphysics, who calculated how much energy you would need for certain spell to work, who wanted to find out whether eye of newt or milk teeth worked better for that potion, who argued on differences between folds and portals.

Therefore, they needed an authority that would manage and guide them, allowing life on meridian to progress and prosper, while stopping them from conjoining dimensions or unsealing ancient evils. Somebody with healthy dose of common sense, as well as self-preservation. And given Mirella possessed impressive track record of never blowing up her laboratory, she was obvious choice.

After Elyon's mother, queen Weira passed away under mysterious, never explained and utterly obvious circumstances, sorceresses and thaumathurges started disappearing. Anybody who could challenge new reign was eliminated. Few hid away, continuing to aid rebellion from Infinite City, or hideouts across whole world, hidden away in swamps and mountains, tundras and deserts. Getting them to reorganize and establish business and academy had been priority ( but then, everything had been priority, given that it seemed there was no end to destruction her brother could wreck, nor lows he would sink to. Burning down villages was apparently way for him to pass time, when he was feeling like going easy on his subjects, once in blue moon).

''Here is newest data on energy supplements in soil, Your Majesty.'' Mirella said, taking out a dozen or so papers from who knows where, and presenting them to queen, who nodded and took up report. Mirella waited around for some time as queen read through papers.

''Oh. I forgot. You are free to go.'' Elyon said, and watched newest mage bow in gratitude and scamper off. She missed days when people didn't wait for her to order them to tend to basic needs and comforts. She was quite sure that if she demanded people slit their throats, they would, all for sake of her smile. Thought chilled her, in darkest of nights, in deepest dreams.

(It is the worst nightmare, worse then ones in which she is helpless, trapped by vines or jewels. Elyon in those dreams has hard eyes and empty smile, heart colder then ice and harder then diamond, and she shines with brilliance so bright it melts eyes, and people worship her, give their children as offerings. And she knows them all, knows their deepest secrets, because she is Heart and Light and she is the Meridian, and they belong to her.)

She threw those thoughts away. This was time for work.

For thirteen years, land had been sapped of it's energy day and night. The life of planet itself had been threatened and preyed upon. Even return of world's Heart, even two years of peace couldn't help that much. Damage had to be actively treated. It would require transplant of energy to ground itself, an ongoing process to heal the earth. Which, among other things, meant Elyon had to educate herself on agriculture, because magic combined with anything resulted in disastrous consequences if not handled properly. And monstrous cursed wheat was least they needed right now.

''Elyon...'' Her father called out, entering her office. Unlike his wife, he had dispensed with his disguise over years. It had taken time getting used to him being a Galhot, but so did it take time to get used to everything.

''Dad? Is something wrong'?'' he didn't look afraid, or magically controlled, though you could never be sure. But he did look confused and awkward, and most of all unsure.

''You have visitors. They asked to be received.'' He said those words as if he was confessing some crime.

''Who?'' She didn't have any more meeting by today's schedule. Unless she forgot some again.

''Relatives.'' Elyon's mind went blank. And Meridian fell silent.

* * *

_Seven minutes._

Everything was dark and green. He liked that. That must have been why he was put here, another mockery. Just as he made Elyon's stay pleasing, so she chose this place for those. Bare and cold and dark and green, everything sharp and shining. That was pleasant.

But she didn't put any plants here. It was good idea, such that he wondered whether his sister really came up with it on her own. She was foolish and soft and weak, but still, they were kin. Perhaps he managed to light a spark of cruelty and reason within her.

Or maybe she hadn't even realized what she had done. That seemed more likely. He supposed Earth Guardian might have faced similar dilemma, but then how could she have known? People were often too stupid to notice the obvious. Perhaps she thought greenspeak was providence only of those connected to an Auramere.

He had to wonder, how they remained sane. How could they stand the silence? How could they walk past trees, bushes, flowers, fallen leaves, seeds, and not hear anything. How could they live without constant whisper at back of their minds, informing them about quality of soil, worms wriggling in dirt, how long ago rain fell, from where wind blew, how bright the sun was? Here, imprisoned in these halls of stone, he felt as if he was suffocating, as if life and awareness were drained out of him, as if slowly world became less solid and lost colour and everything was shaking and spinning...

His roses lived. His Whisperers remained. he knew that, and that was only important thing.

_Sixteen minutes._

New Mage was installed. He saw her once or twice, only in passing. A clumsy, anxious woman, who looked at her ring every few minutes as if she was afraid she would lose it. Probably recent graduate of thaumathurgic schools, tutored by dozen or so third-rate magicians, hedge-sorceresses that survived wars against him. She had quite the shoes to fill in, her predecessor(s) had been rather remarkable. Dee-At had been wise and resourceful, if far too much optimistic and soft hearted, and Nerissa... She had no vision, too caught up in her misguided altruism, but she was powerful, and genius. She was, he realized, one of main reasons he fell. Bunch of children and peasants would have never managed to trouble him so much without her guidance.

And this slip of woman, with her dirty robes and unsteady grip on her staff, was supposed to guard him. To lead all sorcerers of Meridian, and advise queen. She would break soon, and once he got out he would perhaps chop her fingers off, with ring on them.

_Half of hour._

The Infinite City... It proved very useful. Made sense how Rebellion survived for that long. A city stretching through entire Meridian, hidden by earth and magic, with passages hidden in most unremarkable places. He knew now that they hid it's gates in slums, trash dumps, rotting and abandoned taverns... He even knew addresses of few entrances. When he got out he would scour them, and then he would find others. He would take Infinity City, and use it properly-what secrets did it hide, what sort of magics and weapons did dwell there. And it would be useful place for his armies, freeing surface for other things. Especially since amount of Meridian's residents would go down very much once he was freed. It would make nice laboratory, prison, a fortress..

If only he could replace all of people with his Whisperers. But then it wouldn't be half as fun would it- he would never hurt Whisperers.

_Thirty nine minutes._

He counted hours that passed. Sometimes he would lose track, in this place of shadows and pale light, where there was nothing but polished stone and running water, and so he would listen to guards, would start counting again once they slipped the hour or date. It was easy to lose count here, not at all helped by grumbling of all other prisoners.

Cedric and Miranda were quiet. They won't be so quiet once he got out, alongside with Raythor.

_Forty six minutes._

More then two, almost three years passed. It must be late summer by now. Guards mentioned preparations, perhaps Elyon's coming of age?

Well. Lovely, really lovely. Kill her on birthday, sixteen years too late. But well at least he won't have to bother with preparing celebrations. She would throw party for him.

_Hour and two minutes._

* * *

''What do you mean?'' Elyon's mind seemed indecisive whether it should just halt and crash, or run at full speed while burning. As result, inkpots and vases shook and broke, and shards remained suspended in the air. Alborn suppressed wince at sight of that, knowing it would stress Elyon later, but was secretly grateful.

Escanors were always connected to land, especially those who sat on throne. As far as those things could go, this was minor. Under her brother's rule skies were always dark and clouded, and when her mother reigned , storms came and passed in accordance to Queen's moods. His great-grandmother claimed that in time of Weira's predecessor, day and night, phases of moon and seasons themselves changed in matter of seconds, reacting to Queen's feelings. Some older accounts- which were always result of bloated legends and actual truth- spoke of Queen's whose face expressions moved mountains and rivers.

(They were powerful, those Queens of old. And they had been mad. And once upon a time, they had been normal girls, and then they grew up in something that could never be human again.

Elyon's fate will be kinder, says, prays half of him, the one that became Thomas Brown. She is still just a child, says older, buried part of him, one that watched Weira conjure cities from nothing, her smile dispelling thunderclouds and cold.)

''They aren't really close relations. A great-grandchildren of your mother's aunt. You might have heard of them. Kaethe and Miach Durathar. They were members of Rebellion.'' Elyon thought over that for moment. Yes, she could recall names, vaguely, from thousands of reports she had read during following years. They had led rebel cell in one of southernmost provinces, famed for extensive guerilla tactics and great military strategies, but few fighters, only enough to steal from few wagons of army once a month.

_Great-grandchildren of mother's aunt_. Well, it had been big family. All she wanted, not so long ago.

''Why didn't I know about them before? And why are they showing up now?'' She tried to seem calm, to not let any rage or fear show, emotions that seemed to be constant part of her now. Relatives she never heard of before showing up, her parents hiding things from her... It was uncomfortably familiar.

''To be honest, we learnt of their survival relatively recently. As you know, information doesn't travel fast here, and communication network is very fragile.'' That made sense. meridian was after all world stuck in Medieval stage. They didn't even have indoor plumbing, much less internet or phones. Elyon worked hard on rectifying that.

''Survival?'' She asked. She knew that was what Rebellion fought for before her return, before Guardians, a barest chance to live tomorrow, yet way her father said it, with caution and sorrow in his voice, made chill go through her.

''Your bro... Phobos wanted to be sure that there would be no one left to contend his claim on throne. Disposing of his own relatives had been highest priority. Most of them were captured and executed immediately upon his ascension. Others ran all over meridian, and joined Rebellion. But still, they were hunted, until almost all were gone.'' His eyes remained dry, but something in them shrunk and trembled. Thirteen years in an unfamiliar world, and when they were finally free, when all should have been good and happy, he found out that his friends, people he knew his whole life, who he was sworn to defend, were gone.

And yet, he told her nothing. Because he didn't want to worry her, and because he didn't want to sadden her, and it made her mad. It made anger spike in her, bitter as pepper and hot as molten lead, because she knew that she would have taken it bad despite not knowing people in question, because her parents again hid something from her, and because... because that scum she shared blood with ruined more lives, destroyed his own family, and for what? To be able to torment his subjects some more. To starve and ruin them and laugh while he drained his very domain of life.

Oh gods. Were there children...

''Why did they come now?'' Where were they before? Where were they when she was being misled in castle, when Phobos tried to steal her power, when Nerissa succeeded. Where were they when she wanted to learn about Meridian's culture, when she stumbled over language, when she wandered strange halls of her castle and wondered what portraits and drawings meant?

''They were busy with repairing the province. It suffered much before your return. They wanted to meet you, but state just stabilized some time ago.'' Alborn said, as if reciting, and it sounded as excuse, and she knew she had no reason to be angry, but she was. She was nobody to them, and province they lived in did suffer much- resistance had been large there, and retribution swift. Villages burned and earth salted, water supply tainted and children taken away.

''They said that they understand if you don't want to meet them. That they would be honored to be introduced to you, but that it is your decision in the end, and that they apologize for imposing on your time.'' And something battled in Elyon, a girl-queen who was confused and still didn't process what happened, who wondered how and why, and earth girl who secretly envied siblings and grandparents and aunts and cousins of her friends, and both of them saw worry in Alborn's eyes.

''What is it? There is reason why they came today, right?'' She asked, softly. It still sounded like accusation, given how he winced.

'' They... they were always nice children. Brave. Polite. Enthusiastic. Very loud too. Their mother, Lady Deirdre, was good friends with Miriadel.'' And she looked at him, his little girl, and he hated how his words sounded, like a guilt-tripping, but her look demanded for him to tell truth.

''Today is anniversary of her execution.'' Elyon recalled reading about death of Lady Deirdre Durathar, who stole bread for villages under her care. It had been long and public and horrible and she laughed and spoke about return of true heir until they ripped out her tongue, and sparked public outrage, which led to five villages being utterly burned down.

'' You don't have to...'' Alborn said, but Elyon already stepped out, and shards fell to floor.

''It's ok. Lead the way.'' Her cousins deserved to see face of girl their mother died for.

So they go, through winding corridors and wide halls of Meridian Palace. Her parents, Caleb, and all servants claim that there is easy way to memorize how to go where, a logical way they explained several times over, that still makes no sense to Elyon. She feels like fish that is trying to climb.

A queen, and she doesn't even know how to find way to her own room .

It takes them approximately twenty minutes ( Earth ones, because despite all lessons, Elyon still can't get used to Meridian time, just as she can't properly read old books without help, though she is starting to figure out months), until they come to one of smaller conference halls ( there are dozens of them, each for varying purpose dictated by ancient protocols. Elyon still can't memorize everything that dictates who should be hosted where and when.

Most of people she hosts are commoners though, so they have no idea either. That's how it goes when most of nobility is dead or in prison. )

Room they enter is of medium size, and shining white, barely decorated. There is round marble table, and some refreshments upon it. Faded, torn tapestries hang around walls, and Elyon is aware how poorly maintained and lazy everything looks. Queen who can't take care of her own castle, but there was so much other work, villages to build, city to remodel, food to distribute, prisoners to release...

Still, that is no excuse. Queen should be capable of crafting plan to help everybody, especially when she had hordes of loyal servants and friends, and godlike power, and two years at her disposal. her parents and friends assured her she was doing amazing, but she saw portraits of time when her mother ruled, and she saw glazed look in their eyes when they came across ruined room that meant much to them, and hesitation when they said it's nothing important when she inquired about it.

Her cousins must already feel unwelcome.

There they were, a man and woman, seemingly around thirty, both taller then most humans around. Taller then her- Escanors tended towards being higher then most populace, but gene obviously skipped her. She wouldn't have guessed they were once nobles at first sight, they dressed like poorer members of Rebellion. A man wore washed out orange tunic and breeches and seemed to be trying to hide mended parts of his clothes without much of success. The woman seemed to wear a leather armour, and was wrapped up in some form of furs.

''Um, hello. Kaethe and Miach, right? Nice to meet you.'' She didn't like how they were staring at her. They had soft grey-blue eyes, identical to hers, blown wide at sight of her face. They had handsome faces, with strong and sharp lines, kind you only see in movies, Kaethe's covered with giant scar over nose and freckles, and Miach sported a cool ginger beard, not as big as Julian's but much bigger then stubble. His mouth hanged open, and his sister's lips trembled. And were those tears in their eyes?

Oh gods, thought Elyon, as two of them sank to floor, kneeling, heads lowered, and Elyon could see stitches on their clothes, and how rough and calloused their palms were, and they seemed to be shivering, trying to make themselves smaller, as if they were trying to placate some giant, hungry predator.

''Thank you for this honor, Your Majesty. We apologize for disturbing your peace and imposing on your time, but our conscience couldn't let us hide away anymore.'' Spoke Kaethe, taller and bulkier out of two, in voice that seemed far too soft and gentle for such tall woman, who looked as if she skinned bears and wore their hides for fun.

''We have come to ask for your forgiveness. And should you not grant it, as is your right, to accept your judgement.''

* * *

_Three hours._

Sometimes he almost can't feel his magic.

There is power inside him. he had been born with it, as did all of Escanor lineage, a spark, a candle flame of mystic energy, which he had fed and nourished until it became so much more. Once, when his thorns dug in ground of Meridian, he had inferno inside him, and now reduced only to his life force, it was just a pyre. Strong and powerful, of course, but not as much as it was, not brilliant Sun his sister hid inside herself.

(It hurt, for first few months. Sometimes he still feels it. He had been feasting on a planet's energy for thirteen years, and now he is going through withdrawal. He remembers how his skin seemed to flay, how his flesh twisted and crawled, how his bones ached, how he wanted to curl up as his organs seemingly ate each other, how he longed to bite insides of his mouth, to chew off his flesh. How his hands shook until he dug nails in his wrists, how his frame felt far too heavy and clumsy, how his body soul ached empty and his mind was hot and chiming and his vision blurred. But he got used to it, and he never showed it. He wouldn't give those peasants something to laugh at.

Besides, he was prince. And princes were always hungry. He chews on his hair, makes it slicked and stained with his saliva, and bites through, strands like straw onto his teeth.)

_Three hours and seven minutes._

It is there, but it is buried, repressed. As if they bound his hands with iron manacles and wrapped chain around his neck and gagged him with dirty rag. He can't access it, so over time it spills out, atrophies, grows stale and weak, worms of time eating it away. It shouldn't be possible and yet- a cell in city of myths, formed by his sister's will, by Mage's knowledge, by fallen Keeper's strength. Each day he feels power slip away further from his grasp. It starts to feel foreign, alien, like something that doesn't belong to him, or at least, like something that once was his before he outgrew it.

He feels his abilities shrivel and diminish. As if his blood is frozen and bones filled with lead, each day he finds it harder to listen, to attune himself to energy around himself. As if very potential, possibility for power is taken away from him. If this continues, he knows, someday he won't be able to produce a sparkle, won't be able to pull even from his own life.

_Three hours and twenty three minutes._

But it will never come to it, no matter how determined and experienced his sister gets. He ruled for more then a decade. He had already escaped twice. Where strength isn't sufficient (for now) the cunning will prevail. And he is far more slippery then all of them put together, though Guardians pulled admirable stunt on him last time. But they are children, and so limited by their paltry morals... There is always somebody out there who will listen, somebody who is greedy and scared enough to aid him. He just needs to find right person, and for that he needs magic. And he ahs knowledge and he has power, he has his hatred and spite enough to spare. The best magic comes from it, from holding your bitterness and rage like livid steel and wielding it to reshape the world to your needs.

(And always, there is blood and roses.)

It took time to figure that out. It took time for withdrawal to pass, for his hands to be steady, and for anger to abate, from smoking, uneasy feeling to that mechanic, natural hatred he felt for Elyon before she was even born. Mull over failure, analyze, where he went wrong? Trusted Cedric, of course, allowed him some of his power, listened to his advice. Took back Raythor, allowed him to make decisions, didn't check on soldiers enough. Spared the girls, the rebels, instead of killing them right then and there.

_Three hours and thirty four minutes._

Really didn't kill enough people, now he thinks it over. Was too generous with his subjects. Didn't drive in how desperate their situation was enough.

_Three hours and thirty five minutes._

Still, he will fix that next time. For now, he must find a way out. That too takes time, takes at least year of attempts and speculations, as he pours over what spells might be built in cell, how deep and wide Elyon's will covers. And there is the shock, the heaviness of fighting cell's magic, of screeching, tearing pain and tremor that went through him as he tried to grasp his magic, and how it didn't respond, how it slipped like water through his fingers, how it refused him. He felt that if somebody else controlled his breathing, it would have been easier.

He hoped that pain Elyon underwent, will undergo, when she lost her power to his brambles was worse. If not, he will ensure that this time.

_Three hours and fifty two minutes._

In time, he figures out loophole. It takes tests and guesses a plenty, but finally he is sure. Cell prevents him from striking out, from escaping, but not from working magic on, for himself. Oh, he can't change his shape, or strengthen his body, but some other things become possible with patience and correct usage.

Everything in Infinite City is polished as a mirror, and clear as tears. He waits and steadies his hands, chews his hair, stops curl of his lips at sight of his face, and stops smile once a vision comes to him. Farther, beyond Vathek's face. Farther, beyond the waterfall. Farther, beyond entrance. farther, beyond the city. Farther, beyond the castle kitchens. Farther, beyond mountains.

_Five days, seven hours and nineteen minutes._

There.

* * *

''Uhh, I'm sorry, but can you please hold on?'' Elyon asked, barely stopping her voice from screeching. Because she had no idea what to do, and her brain started burning and grinding to halt, because she was just a naive normal girl who got a whole world to rule out of nowhere, and she knew nothing about it's society, about her own family's history, and just now she had apparently stumbled into some ancient family feud or had somehow implied she wants to punish them (maybe she should have been one to look out for them? Maybe people thought that because she didn't ask after surviving cousins or contact them, she had implied she wanted to punish them, but for what, oh gods what did she get herself into)?

''Why would I be forgiving you?'' And those were exactly wrong words to say, because confusion on their faces (because she used Earth sayings, and of course they didn't get it, they must be thinking she is babbling nonsenses) was replaced by resigned fear, and it cut her heart apart because they had obviously been expecting that, and oh she must have used wrong tone, and oh why could nothing be simple with her family.

''No! I mean, I wanted to ask, I don't know what I should be forgiving you for. Dad?'' She asked Alborn, who looked just as confused and tense as her cousins, and Elyon knew she looked nothing like queen, but as that stupid, awkward teen in ugly sweaters with bad hair who fell for sweet lies because she thought somebody treated her as special for first time.

'' I am afraid I am just as confused as you. Lady Kathe, Lord Miach, could you please explain? Why do you think you need forgiveness?'' He dared not mention judgement. He composed his face as he looked at them, and calmed down his heart as he recognized how much older they were then last time he saw them, how much older they were then they should be. Stopped shivers as he took in Kaethe's scar, as if somebody tried to split her face, the numerous mends at their clothes, how quiet and still they were, children who were joy whenever they visited because they brought laughter and chattering to castle ( Weira's home had never known laughter of innocent children, as she forbid children to be used as labour, only weak breaths of daughters born sick and slithers in shadows).

And he thought not of Deirdre, sharp and brilliant and shining as edge of sword, Deirdre who was politician and warrior and thaumaturge and friend and who risked her life to carry back food to poor, Deirdre who was killed on stage, who had hundred monuments and no grave. Who was at best ash on wind, if they didn't throw her to pigs.

''Because we failed you.'' Said Kaethe, and she was still kneeling, and her words were plea and confession and pure fear shone in her eyes, and something inside Elyon trembled at seeing this mountain of woman lay herself down like prey, like offering in front of her, just as other liked, that part she kept locked up somewhere dark.

''Um, how so?'' She hoped she sounded reasonable and calm, not dumbfounded and irritated and scared. That she didn't sound like somebody who was preparing knife to slit their throats, like little girl who would break down after receiving bad news, because then and there she was everything, she was it all, and it made her scared, and it made her angry, and flowers in vases put as decorations blurred and faded in smoke.

It was familiar thing, she supposed. didn't mean it still didn't hurt.

Oh you have family you never heard of before!

And guess what? They harmed you, they put you in danger when you were baby! Surprise surprise!

''We- or line, our whole family- didn't provide protection when you needed it. We weren't there when tyrant made his move, we weren't able to aid with your rescue, we didn't manage to claim any worthwhile victory while he reigned. We weren't even able to see his plans, though in hindsight it was obvious what would happen.'' Said Kaethe, voice soft and trembling, as if she was rabbit cowering in front of tiger, as Elyon's eyes grew wide.

''Should have been drowned at birth.'' Murmured Miach, and Kaethe made movement to kick him, but he wiggled away, and Alborn almost smiled. Comment made Elyon wince, because on ideological level she understood that it was bad and such line of thinking led to dangerous paths and self-fulfilling prophecies, but she could also understand very well where they were coming from.

She wouldn't kill her brother herself, wouldn't call for his execution, but if he perished of illness or accident or stroke of luck in cell, well she wouldn't be very much bothered.

''We have dishonoured ourselves, and brought shame on our house. We have failed you, our Light and Sovereign. We have failed people of this world, hiding in shadows and leading small gangs to attack wagons of food, changing nothing. We are sorry, and we know it changes nothing, and so should you desire to take our lives, they are yours.'' Elyon felt sick. She felt something heavy and awful sink in her stomach, felt need to cover her mouth, felt that boiling, rolling anger light up, at herself, them, at world, at _him_.

'' No. Nope. Not a chance. I won't be talking anybody's life, especially when you did nothing wrong. How old were you anyway?'' She said, and it came out much more forceful then she intended, Leaving her cousins gaping.

''I, I was sixteen. Miach was eleven. We know that is no excuse, and should you posthumously dishonor mother...'' She went on, and Elyon felt anger bristle and turn cold and weak.

''Wait. What do you mean by that? Dishonour her if she is dead?'' She noticed how two of them flinched at mere notion, heavy fear and sadness in their eyes, how her father grimaced.

''It is one of your rights as queen. You can proclaim somebody has acted dishonourably against you and exact recompensation, even if they aren't alive. You can forbid building of tombs, strip all of Deir-Lady Deirdre's titles, curse her name, make it taboo to speak, ask priestesses to send doom upon her soul, take away all her estates from family...'' He continued, and Elyon felt awful at very thought of it all, as if she was going to puke, as if they shoved moth balls down her throat.

'' No. There won't be any of that. How could you think of something like that? to desecrate a dead woman, to punish you all for doing your best-'' They would have allowed her to that. They would have been grateful. She was queen, she was their Light, and they lived to serve her.

Only now did she realize how cultish whole thing was.

''Our best wasn't good enough.'' Said Kaethe, and Alborn knew she had seen things he could never compare to, even with his imprisonment in Cavigor, had seen people dubbed sympathizers of rebellion for complaining about hunger sent to mines, saw food stolen and villages burned, saw children beaten and elders enslaved, shrines ruined and school ransacked.

''It was. It was better then you could be expected to give. Even if you only survived, that was great. And you fed poor, you fought soldiers, from what I heard?'' Elyon said, remembering old reports, talks with hundreds of rebels who said those same words.

''It was least we could do. There is nothing worthwhile in that. It was necessary.'' Kaethe spoke, with conviction of priestess who heard Hallowed Dead speak to her, with certainty even Kandrakar couldn't match, with subtle note of outrage, as if she couldn't believe there was somebody who wouldn't do same.

''It was. Everything any of you did was incredible, and I'm grateful for that, and I won't forgive you because there is nothing to forgive. And I don't want to hear things like this again. And that isn't order, but plea, from cousin to cousin. Got it?'' Slowly, two of them nodded, as if they couldn't believe this wasn't a dream actually.

''Dad, please find them a room. I... I need to go calm down.'' And with those words, she departed, and when doors closed and she knew nobody was seeing her, she teleported to her room in flash of light, because there she could rage and panic like normal girl, and leave uncomfortable situations to adults.

* * *

_Three days and twenty four minutes._

He didn't sleep a lot. It was habit started years ago, because his room was next to mother's, who had admirable habit of staying awake until she finished all work (and thus, Phobos had to stay awake, to spy on her, because it was fun and because you never knew when some interesting information might slip, and because then he had been stupid and naive enough to think he would also be such dedicated ruler to his people), and unfortunate tendency towards being very friendly and attractive person (even when one forgot all practical advantages of getting involved with Queen), which led to incredible amount of fools spitting awful poetry, saccharine jokes and certain other activities that only stopped when he knocked on wall and Weira hurriedly threw her lovers out, afraid of mentally scarring child.

She should have invested more effort in making sure he never got hang of poisons and stabbings instead.

Then when he became ruler- officially, a first male _regent_\- there have been numerous attempts at assassinations while he slept, which made his sleep much lighter for practical advantages. And it had been interesting, few things were as lovely as assassin's face when tyrant woke up and just blasted them. Said advantage and sensitivity to disturbed silence, foreign footsteps, creaking of curtains eventually became annoyance, so Phobos took up sleeping in his gardens, laying on ground and in hollows of trees, guarded by his Whisperers.

Therefore, sleeping in prison came to be rather hard. There was always some rattling, something happening. Prisoners whispering, roaring, guards chatting, the waterfall crashing down. Over time he adapted, so that he took several fragile naps a day, closing his eyes and letting his body rest for a while, hanging between sleep and waking on a thin thread. It had been tiring in it's own way too, and left him dizzy and feeling as if he was seeing everything through veil, but at least he was always alert, never missed gossip of guards, never allowed one to attack him in sleep.

(And he never remembered his dreams, and that was best of all.)

_Three days and two hours._

A guard, young Galhot and newcomer by looks of it, rambled about some nonsense to older Lurden (and this was surely another insult, or sign of incompetence, or both, to have a child and old man guard him) who was silent and nodding whole time, but actually seemed to be listening with interest, which either showed remarkable ability to find something worthwhile in such nonsense, or worrying lack of intellect to consider that silliness important.

Anniversary of grandparent's deaths. Bah, what waste of time. Excuse for families to get together and pretend they missed old fools, and that life wasn't easier fewer relatives you had. And reason? To pretend there was some special reason why they were feasting like pigs and drinking themselves into stupor, with traditional food and drinks prepared for that day weeks if not months ago. Offer to ancestors. Bah, why would dead care for what living ate and drank? If anything, they should get offended- watching others indulge in what you can't partake of must be horrible.

_Three days, two hours and seventeen minutes._

Despite claims to contrary, he doesn't hate or or find his family unworthy. Well, he does feel those things towards Elyon, and felt same for all other relatives he had misfortune of knowing, but as concept, he doesn't hate his ancestors. He doesn't mean to dishonor or mock them- it is simply that he believes that past should stay in past, and that it's purpose is to inspire newer generations, and that histories of those that acme before are meant as lessons and warnings. They are meant as guidelines, and best way to honor ancestors isn't by drink and food and candles and incenses, but by surpassing them.

And it isn't as if he doesn't respect them. They were all remarkable women ( nobody writes histories of princes and consorts, only mentions them in genealogy books), and some of them he outright looks up to, even if they have almost nothing in common. Queen Medissa had been incredible individual, with such _fascinating_ if unconventional ideas about intersection of theory and practicality of magic. If Phobos was lesser man, who lacked his own initiative and originality, she would have been his role model.

Truly, it was such tragedy her palace had been torn down. Then burned. Then earth it sat on salted and exorcised approximately seventy times. Then her daughter scattered ashes of her mother's body and books all over world while damning her name with every curse known to Meridianites and then some. But ah, since forever only few possessed true vision.

And great-great-great-great-grandma Sylviana was just, ah... He didn't have words good enough to express his admiration. You just had to respect woman when mere mention of her name caused everybody in vicinity to get tense and admonish you for talking about her centuries after she (Probably-maybe- we hope so) died.

_Three days and four hours._

He doesn't check on Elyon.

She is naive, and disgustingly sweet, and painfully oblivious, enough to allow that awful hag to get close and earn her trust in two different guises ( fact that he failed to notice former Guardian during thirteen years of his reign is something he doesn't consider), but she is powerful, though she doesn't deserve it, and she is connected to all magic on Meridian. It comes from her, goes back to her once it is used up, for she is shining source of it all, she is Light of Meridian, she is it's mystic heart.

She would have felt him, would have noticed his magic, possibly even who it belonged to ( for blood called to blood, and it wasn't so long ago that Light inside her belonged to another, and it would remember fruit of Weira's womb), and she would be able to reach back, to cut off any chance of escape he had, steal his power, pluck out his eyes.

So he stared at walls of cell, and ignored hissing of those next to him, ignored creaking of water, ignored his reflection and saw things in his mind, saw abandoned castles and burrows under earth, and saw green and growing and lush forests, and concentrated.

_Three days, seventeen hours, forty three minutes._

They said men didn't have magic.

It was ridiculous thought, as Phobos demonstrated, as various wizards and sorcerers all over Known Worlds demonstrated, yet people in Meridian believed it. Magic was simultaneously hard and easy- all you needed was correct knowledge (which could get complicated, and thus was often privilege of nobles), appropriate emotions (that you had to reign in), willpower (that you could never let waver)- and your own life force. For those not blessed to be connected to great source of magic, such as Hearts and Aurameres, you had to lean off your own energy, fuel spells with years of your life, accomplish wonders at cost of your vitality, trade health for success. It required discipline, seriousness, intelligence, restraint and propensity towards abstract and metaphorical thinking, which was why even those who knew men were theoretically capable of magic didn't believe they could or should take up craft.

Phobos made mistake of letting family know his wish. They laughed, all except mother who was gentle and understanding and explained to him it wasn't done, and Zaden, who was confused. And when he showed off success, bought by spying on his cousin's lessons, stealing books from library, bothering thaumathurges and his own dangerous experiments, it seemed pathetic and twisted, because it was abnormal for prince to think of anything but marriage and producing daughters (running sister's harem, going to convent and becoming warrior was permissible), and because of course he would seem weak when he was son of woman who could bring world to knees with snap of fingers. So he needed another source of power- Light of Meridian was preferable, appropriate one, but others would suffice. Draining world of it's energy was quite nice solution, if unlikely to sustain him for long.

But before it all, a boy went to roses, and offered himself to their thorns.

_Four days and thirty seconds._

* * *

She can't describe how teletransporting feels.

It is far too fast to describe, to notice difference. She doesn't know if it is because she isn't observant enough, or because she isn't poetic enough, or because she is Heart and thus far more effective because she has plenty of energy to spare. There is no loss of consciousness, no dizzy feeling, no darkness behind eyes, no travel through strange planes. She wishes to go somewhere and there she is, for she is Queen of Meridian and it's laws, legal and natural both, are subject to her whims.

Ok, she should stop that train of thought. That is how you become evil overlord and start craving other's powers. Which Elyon would never do but still... It rattles her, sometimes, realization of all things she could do, all terrors she might invoke ( her parents say that means she is good queen, because she is aware of her power, and wouldn't use it, because she knows meaning of responsibility, but still)...

She in her room. Room that is actually hers, chosen and designed by her, not room she was given, sent to when she was brought (kidnapped) to Meridian. It is giant and lavish, and probably dream of every little girl and well, every not so little person, because everybody likes bit of luxury (ok, a lot of it), and often it makes her uncomfortable but now it seems too small. She needs sky and air and stars, and she rushes to balcony, breathing in the smell of summer evening. It fills her up, cool and fresh and soft, smelling of smoke from city's chimneys, of nice meals and of grass cut by scythe.

(She knows that if she wanted, if she tried, she could reach out with her mind and see through eyes of every woman and bird and bug in Meridian. That she could stretch her essence in very air and earth and sky of meridian, so nothing escapes her knowledge.

She knows that it is horrible, awful, creepy invasion of privacy and disgusting level of tyranny and absolute oversight that puts Big Brother to shame.

She knows that few queens tried it, and died mad and broken and lost as result, their consciousness stretched too tight until they dispersed.)

This is her world.

This whole planet, from hottest deserts to coldest tundras, from deepest valleys to highest mountains, belongs to her. It is dream of every crooked politician (and is there one that isn't) on Earth, of every petty king and tyrant and dictator. To have a whole world serve you, recognize themselves as your subjects, define their culture around serving you...

And that's just the tip of iceberg. The Meridian itself belongs to her. It feels awful, to think so, but something in her bones recognizes awful truth, recognizes legitimacy of her claims. Wide skies and depths of oceans, blooming fields and burning core of planet belong to her, obey her every wish. Her whim could erase cities, could turn vulcanoes in rivers. Beasts and woods bowed to her (all but cursed ones in gardens she never visited, though they too had to obey), acknowledged her, were rightfully hers.

Because she was their Light. Meridian's mystic heart. She was their _god_.

She had to be perfect, infallible, all-mighty queen. Even though she wasn't even sixteen, even though she came to meridian like pawn and prey, allowing her selfishness to blind her to truth. And then again, she fell for a lie, and spent months in jewel prison, starving but living, tired but never dreaming...

And these people, her own relatives, were ready to be punished by her, to have their mother's grave and name desecrated for sake of Elyon's ego. If she asked, would they have barred their throats for her, would they have died for her sake?

Was that normal Meridian behavior, or only something in family? She didn't know which was worse, only that she had to rectify it somehow. It sounded so much like some cult, especially centered around teen girl who barely knew anything...

Her heart almost stopped at sight of Kaethe, of that rock of woman, kneeling and almost weeping, as pathetic as drowned puppy, begging for forgiveness with fear. She was afraid of Elyon, as if Elyon would strike her down, turn her in frog for failing at what nobody could ask of her. She was just a child, hunted refugee, and she blamed herself for not winning war? That was... that was horrible beyond anything she knew.

And truth was, she feared them. She heard words, relatives, Escanor, Meridian family, and something inside her fluttered and scrapped. Because she knew nothing, because everybody loved and missed them and something in Elyon ached for them, she couldn't be sad, couldn't properly long for them, because she never knew them.

All she had was a mad, petty tyrant imprisoned behind bars of light and running water, a liar who wanted to steal her power, steal power of her friends, of his own world, steal it all until he was swollen with magic and might, slouching on his throne while people beneath died in mines, while those who opposed him were parts of his gardens, him and disturbing vision of Weira Nerissa conjured. That was all she got from this family, him and Light she was hunted for.

On Earth, everybody always talked about grandparents, aunts, distant uncles, cousins thrice removed, of great family gatherings and arguments and celebration. Her parents loved her, but it felt lonely. It was as if everybody had tree and she had to make do with one twig. That was how Cedric drove her to Meridian, with promise of giant happy family...

And now, when she got it, she couldn't manage to hold a conversation.

* * *

''We are sorry for disturbance, sir Alborn. We had no intention of troubling Her Majesty.'' Kaethe said, pushing lock of auburn hair from steely blue eyes. They had expected queen would be less then happy to meet them, of course. She was well within her rights to have them whipped until they departed from this world.

But they didn't mean to upset her like this-not that they wanted to upset her in any way, of course, but they had to be realistic. She was taken to another world, secretly raised among _aliens_, while her kingdom almost perished under traitor, who tried to kill her again and again, while they did nothing but hide in backwater villages like most dishonorable cowards.

''I know that, Lady Kaethe, and so does the queen. But please, there is no need for such honorifics. And no protests, since I'm far more stubborn then you.'' He lost right to them years ago. he left his home to be ravaged and ruined, and in the end couldn't even properly protect his princess, his excuse to run away, his _daughter._

''Same goes for us. And please, no protests, since you may find yourself horribly outmatched.'' Kaethe and Miach stopped being royalty ages ago, when they fled their home for swamps, clothed in rags and glamours, boarded away on ships carrying refugees with barrels and kitchen utensils. There was no time and place for titles in fight so desperate it was laughable to call it war, when children crawled through mud and elders desperately tried to make sense of the Infinite City, to hide from armies that took their bread and their families.

And Kaethe hid too. Fact she was credited with (minor) success of rebellion in southern provinces was far too much honor then she deserved.

''Please, let's not start that politeness combat. Either stick to forms or drop them all. I am too tired to listen to two of you wasting hours on insisting on being more humble then other.'' Miach spoke, and Alborn almost couldn't believe it, how deep his voice was, how big and well tended his beard was, for shy and snobby little boy of ten years kept appearing in place of grown and strong man that stood in front of him.

''And I'd like for you to show some patience and tact once in your life.'' Kaethe mumbled, glaring down at her brother, who tried to stand up at tips of his fingers under belief he was being subtle about it, and that it would make noticeable change even though his sister towered over him for head and half at least.

''Tough luck. Don't frown like that, you will get wrinkles early.'' Miach said, not acknowledging tired and murderous look Kaethe gave him, which could have stopped hundreds of soldiers, but was completely helpless against inborn foolishness and bravery possessed only by younger siblings, which either defied all weapons and threats or caused said older sibling to go on nearly murderous rampage.

''Don't speak nonsense. Who ever heard of woman caring for something as trivial as wrinkles, anyway?'' Women excelled by sword and magic, by diplomacy and learning, by tenderness and authority. Beauty was for men to worry, if their mothers weren't rich enough to find wife who'd have them. At least it was so in Meridian.

Alborn still remembered first time some annoying salesman suggested to Miriadel to try some cream against wrinkles, and how she stared at him as if he had grown second head (which to be honest was rare but not unlikely thing in Meridian). As did their whole neighbor, to be honest. Not that he was any better-two of them almost blew their cover then and there.

''Anyway, si- mr. Alborn, once again we must apologize for our actions, and our cowardice. Cowardice we have displayed in more then one way. For it wasn't only rebuilding that prevented us from coming sooner.'' Kaethe said, lowering her head like fifteen year old chastised by her tutors for not cleaning up courtyard as she promised, and daring to lie to them about it, so absorbed in her shame that she didn't notice most hated cousin up in tree, combing his hair (but ah, leaves would never betray him, branches would never reveal him).

''Kaethe. Miach.'' Alborn said, breathless and choking, voice as weak as Kaethe's, standing as shakily as Miach, and once again he though of how young they were, of childhood stolen and wasted, and of Heatherfield, where there was no honor that demanded miracles out of downtrodden, that would ask for blood of helpless. World where leaders could do much, but never expect you to offer yourself as sacrifice for failing at impossible, where no code of chivalry and piety bound people tighter then chains. Where there was no master to ask you to die as price for suffering you endured, because it reflected badly at them.

(Weira didn't, she never believed in such things, because she saw it as archaic cocnept that brought only more pain and crushing expectations, and neither did Phobos, though there was blood with him, oh yes, enough blood to turn river that fed capitol red, because in his world there was no honor, no justice, only blood and whims.)

''You heard the queen. There is nothing to forgive. Tragedy, the horror that happened, none of us were able to prevent it. Sometimes, horrible things happen for no reason, or because evil people plan bit too well and get lucky, and we can't allow ourselves to wonder about past and what ifs. We can only survive, and help others. And you have done admirably.

And... And I am sorry we didn't seek you out earlier.'' He heard all about it, once he and Miriadel started asking around, trying to track down friends and families, to pierce what happened, where they were, who survived (were there graves to visit). Kaethe and Miach, only Escanors left, hiding in swamps, leading Rebellion composed of fishermen and farmers since they were children- and surviving despite all.

''We made Her Majesty sad. We didn't intend to upset her like that.'' Whispered Miach, tugging at his much repaired shirt. It was obvious girl would feel bad and conflicted about meeting them, unless inclinations towards monstrousness were laying dormant in Weira's line, but they didn't intend to make her feel awful about herself. That defeated point of arrival, after all.

Ugh, talk about horrible first impressions.

''..Yes, queen Elyon has been upset. This is all still very new to her, and she is also doing her best, as I'm sure you understand very well. But she is strong, as she has proven numerous times. She just needs bit of time to calm down.'' They nodded. They knew very well what it felt to be child, and take responsibility for so many lives on your own, to see your world changed so much, though not to same extremes as young queen's.

Seemed there were some family resemblances they really didn't expect, but which should have been obvious in hindsight.

''Now, let me find you rooms to stay. And don't try to refuse, or I shall let Miriadel deal with you-after she finishes hugging you until you choke.'' There would be time to talk of Lady Deirdre later, he decided, seeing how their eyes shone at mention of their honorary aunt.

''Just so you know, in case rumor didn't already reach southern provinces, she and me are married.'' There was moment of silence, before Alborn found another resemblance.

''WHAAAT?!''

* * *

_Four days, sixteen hours and seventeen minutes._

He gets the date.

He listens, and waits, and finally finds it. A guard lets it slip, ( _Are you getting Marissa anything for birthday/ Oh damn, I forgot. When is it? /13__th__. Don't worry, you have a week left_). Phobos latched on it, a piece of information that was so meaningless yet made something warm and excited grow and spread out in him (aren't you pathetic, how far you have fallen, to find joy in that). A knowledge grasped in secret, with hungry, trembling claws, that was always useful.

He knew date now. He knew month and year and hour and now he knew day. That was good. World was much firmer and and calmer now, everything was so steady and balanced now. A puzzle almost completed. That was good, now if only he could calculate previous days and match them with their dates, and he could, of course, and then he would connect dates with guard schedules...

It was work. It was something productive, something active, because he wasn't beaten yet, he would never be. Because he needs to be awake.

_Four days, sixteen hours and twenty three minutes._

He doesn't fear dreams.

He doesn't have nightmares.

It is all nonsense, a waste of time. To spend hours each day, umoving and inactive, unaware of world around you, lost to nonsenses and fantasies... Maybe a greatest flaw of human body's poor design.

He doesn't sleep, and so he doesn't dream of towers piercing the moon, of frost thrown in flame, of effigies drowned, of spears of past, of children screaming in vaults, of bones beneath rivers, of trees buried in shadows, of coffins shattering, of signs and letters carved in rock, of forests torched and dragons chained, of one eyed crows blocking out sky. He doesn't dream of girls unnamed beneath stone, of boys unmourned beneath water, of victims rendered silent and invisible reaching out to family deaf and blind, of stars dancing and incenses building paths as moon keens and cursed souls stir up trouble and crows chant...

Mother, burning blue and white, like opal filtering light of pyre as final breath escapes her. Zaidan, on his knees, hands shaking as magic reduces him to less then dust. Aunt Primrose, eyes sleepy and confused as broken armor drags her beneath moat. Cousin Vivianne, screaming as thorns dig in her flesh, as vines tangle in her hair. Grandmother, among bodies of plague (curse) stricken, blood and entrails spilling around her.

He can go on, he doesn't need sleep, he doesn't fear anything so silly as dreams.

_Four days, seventeen hours and three minutes._

His hair had been getting longer.

It always did. Escanors were strange hybrids, of humans and galhots and passlings and all other sorts of creatures, born from womb of women who became one with planet itself. Magic coiled through each tissue, each part of their body, only accumulating and digging deeper in sinew and marrow with each generation. Each Escanor had been born with dozens of small, passive magics, tiny gifts that were basically useless, powers people didn't notice unless they looked very well. Some could climb without tiring, others were immune to snake venom, or had sensitive hearing, far beyond what was physically possible.

Phobos's hair grew fast, and it grew strong. Steel couldn't cut it, blades broken and dulled under platinum strands, and even fire was of little help ( even excluding obvious reasons making it dangerous). It required magic to cut it, or he had to pluck out hairs by hand. Never too much, as it seemed it had violatile reactions to being trimmed too much. Last time he had his hair cut a little below shoulder blades, it had grown overnight until it was six times long as he.

It had required a complicated charm to halt it's growth. A combination of glamour and stunting spells, managing to keep his hair only at hip length. Charm must have been decaying in this cell, worn out by time and wards, or years pushed and stretched it to limits of it's efficiency, as his hair now trailed after his feet, and he was forced to spend most of time braiding it and sitting on bed to keep it from getting dirty and infested with lice. He couldn't cut it, but he had to, because it was far too long to be practical when he escaped. For now, he had to contend with several complicated braids. The newest one was giving him quite the trouble, having to sort it by hand, as it already broke seven combs (and annoyance of guards was only positive thing about that, as well thought that some poor crafters were wasting time and resources on tyrant).

He continued to chew on it, passing strand after strand through sharp white teeth, as he untangled knots.

_Four days, seventeen hours and nineteen minutes._

Truth to be told, he preferred sleeping on floor.

His gardens had been most pleasant, of course. Those plants knew him, obeyed him, would keep his sleeping form safe with their poison and brambles. He would lie on bed of grass that sang at his passing, on pillow of fallen leaves that giggled at his touch, cover himself with flowers that whispered him secrets, and dream. Any garden, any forest would be good, but his own garden was special, the most perfect place in world.

But any ground was good. Even laying on mud, despite mess it made, unless one used magic of course, was preferable. Even sleeping on hard rock wasn't uncomfortable. In fact, it felt assuring, as if if he stretched himself enough, put enough effort, he could dig in bedrock, like ancient oak spreading out it's roots. But he couldn't do that now, couldn't let his enemies and captors see him in such weak, undignified position, let them gloat.

(When he was on Earth, and shared home with fallen Keeper's former minion, that was part of reason he chose to sleep on his bed, to keep dignity. Other part was wonderful look of utter hate and annoyance boy gave him when Phobos jumped on his bed with shoes still on.

His grandmother always said pettiness was root of power and wisdom, and who was he to ignore advice of elders?)

_Four days, nineteen hours and twenty two minutes._

Food was atrocious.

It wasn't as horrible as things Phobos fed his prisoners to, but it was still barely edible. Elyon was at least managing one thing right, there was no point in feeding prisoners if they didn't suffer. It was actually more fun then starving them, looking at their faces as they struggled to swallow gunk they were given, aware only other choice was death.

This wouldn't give him even a little stomach trouble, but it was as awful as cafeteria food on Earth, and that was good. Sweet things, easy things made it hard to keep focus, made you weak and complacent. Trash like this stoked his hatred, warmed his anger, kept his power vital and active.

He drunk the soup, thick and orange and full of fat, ate stale, crumbling bread and chopped up sorry excuse of salad (he grew better ones, in his beautiful garden) and consumed it. He left almost raw, elastic meat that would require chewing for three hours in bowl, alongside yellowish, cold liquid he was given to drink.

Oh, when he got out, he would feed them their own flesh. he would do it with his bare hands, he will tear skin and all underneath it until bone glistened and showed with his bare hands, and he would stuff it raw and dripping down their throats until they choked, and he will make them thank him.

_Five days._

Phobos gazes in walls of cell, gathers remnants of magic, and reaches far away with his mind, to lonely and abandoned places where his less significant keeps were. His magic and will push through walls as clear as mirrors, come out of glass and metal in distant towers, cottages, buildings lost to woods, caves...

And far away, a Whisperer wakes up.

* * *

**Thanks for reading, hope you liked it, please comment.**


	3. Worry in darkness

Hi! Sorry for inactivity, life has been hectic. Here is new chapter, from where plot officially, if slowly starts (remember, backbone of this fic are character exploration and worldbuilding). Hope you like it, thanks for reading, please comment.

Warning, contains animal torture at last section.

* * *

Palace was nothing like in his memories.

Of course, Miach admitted, it wasn't as if he had rather vivid memories of place. Aunt Weira was hospitable, charitable and loving woman who greatly trusted and valued her family- perhaps far, far too much, considering what eventually happened, and always ready to welcome them, but that didn't mean that they were hanging around palace all that often, even if it _was _big enough to house whole family-they had their own castles and estates, which were now probably razed and ruined beyond any recognition. And maybe it was better to have it destroyed than given over to some servant of tyrant, or Usurper himself, to see it desecrated and twisted as that disturbed bastard made aunt Weira's palace look, or so they heard at least.

(She was of course not Miach's aunt. Miach was great-grandson of queen Weira's aunt, queen Norbia, which if he remembered correctly made her his _balakha_. Meridian's language was wonderful and complex, and possessed words for every possible concept and relationship. There were separate terms for daughter-in-law of your aunt's niece and your great-grandmother's brother's mother-in-law. As this was far too much information for brain to remember, to consternation of older generations, most people abandoned them in favor of inaccurate but simpler terms. especially among Escanors, where some would last for centuries and still look like your younger cousins.)

Perhaps, muddled by years, and his own wishes, memory and fantasy grew together, until one bled in other, and royal palace, the jewel of Meridian, seat of queen's power grew beyond any reason and sense, turning what was magnificent but still mortal home in pinnacle of beauty, a paradise straight out of fairy tale, impossible, unreachable utopia, manifestation of every desire, place that would fulfill any need and sate every want. A foolish child's dream, he knew that, but still...

Perhaps tales of commoners truly infected him more then he suspected. he couldn't have truly believed that palace reached so high into Heavens that queen could grab Sun, overlook all of Meridian, forever removed from tiny, boring world beneath unless she wished otherwise. That floors were paved in gold tiles, doors carved from pearls and bones of ancient monsters, inlaid with gems and jewels so brilliant one could buy continent. That walls would be built out of stone impenetrable, out of rock giants crushed and molded by will of queens of past, painted with murals that moved and changed and lived, fueled by souls of artists who made them.

Doors to his room were old, and bit rotten, but they were big and clean. Walls were boring cream colour, and there were cracks in paint, but they were thick and nicely insulated. Glass was smoky, dirty and boring but strong and unlikely to break. Carpets were faded and torn at ends, but designs on them were of complex images, and fabric was of high quality. Bed wasn't ornately carved and made of gold, but of lacquered, polished wood and it was more comfortable then well, anything Miach slept on last ten years. Wardrobe couldn't hide legion but it was thrice bigger then it needed to be for everything he owned. All in all, he couldn't under any circumstances claim life at palace wasn't comfortable.

There was constantly some rumble at palace, he could see it even in short time he had been present. Constantly, something was changing, being carried of or brought. For thirteen years Usurper had been tormenting people of Meridian, taking away everything they had, seeking to bleed them dry, stealing every crumb and drop of water from lowest smugglers to greatest nobles. It was said that tyrant used magic to expand interior of royal treasury, and that it was as big as city itself, full of both impossible wealth and useless trash stolen from spite.

Miach heard queen Elyon started program of reparations for all who were hurt and cheated and robbed blind and naked during period of her absence. He wondered how many jewels there were in palace's treasury, stolen by usurper's soldiers, and unable to be returned to owners, because nobody marked graves.

His mother had small chest filled with jewels that shone like starlight and changed colours, from pale and cold lilac to smoky, sweet orange. Some were smoother than glass, carved by magic and tools of greatest craftsmen. Others were rough, chipped, unworked stones, seemingly torn out of ground by hand. Few were hers, others were his father's. Some shone when you said specific words, others sang, some floated, or played out images... His mother sold them all over years, to shady smugglers who were still honest enough to not deal with Phobos's regime, because they needed food, and money to fund their rebel cells, until all that was left was old, faded brooch with white rose and thyme of thin metal covered by chipped paint.

Phobos didn't take them, so queen Elyon couldn't return them, and still because of him it was lost. Few days after she sold off the box itself, his mother, the respected and feared Lady Deirdre, as great and terrible as army of dragons, had been caught and beheaded. And not even queen could return dead.

* * *

_Hour ago._

There used to be manor in the woods.

It was estate once, small as royal estates went, but still great and beautiful. It was hidden, private place where Escanors retreated when they needed rest and healing, in times full of sunlight and greenery, when breeze was cool and easy, after trees finished flowering yet fruits weren't ripe yet, and harvest wouldn't come for months.

Used to be there, always laughter and work present. A village of sorts grew inside and around it, generations after generations of servants, to whom land truly belonged lived there, taking care of lands and rooms, and living off it as well as queen, for she was kind woman, and maid could sleep in royal bed, for better for it to be used then cleaned a year long for no reason. There children played games in halls, and on solstice women wove wreaths of flowers for young men who caught their eye, and couples happily jumped over flames. And always, in that delicate place, there was singing.

Now silence reigns there. The estate is abandoned, inhabitants having left once land was sapped dry of life, leaving in hurry, chased out by soldiers who ransacked place then abandoned it. The homes crumble, moss replacing mortar and twisted roots cracking stone. Bones dwell in yellowed grass. Even animals have left this dry and hollowed out place, air poisoned with dust and numbness. All of homes have been torn down to foundations, broken in ash. Only somewhat does a tower of stone stand, it's roof gone, half of it shattered and falling, struck down by rage from above.

Inside, a Whisperer wakes up.

That, honestly, isn't good enough word. Whisperers were things of blood and sap, secrets and magic. They do not feed or sleep as people do, for that is impractical flaw of humanity. They are nourished by light and richness of earth and magic, and when those are lacking they turn slow and static, retreating beneath soil, in leaves and woods. Once starved of it, they stop listening, hardly move, disconnecting from world more and more until they meld in bark and flowers, and then finally lose consciousness, or what passes for it, and disperse.

There used to be few Whisperers at estate, created from gardens. In all of his keeps, over all of Meridian, Prince Phobos kept and placed Whisperers, who spied on his subjects, hidden in roots and grass, letting him see and hear news through them, extending his choking hold over Meridian better then any spy network, and seeing that his domains remained in proper condition.

(Rather generous term, as he cared not for people living there, or functionality of buildings. Let servants rot, let towers crumble, as long as he still held them, as long as roses grew undisturbed.)

There were few Whisperers stationed there, barely more than a dozen, as estate was small and not strategically important. In few years since Phobos's defeat, all of them withered and rotted away, until only one remained, having sunk in stems and pollen on hibiscus bush, halfway gone. Until...

A green wall, smooth and clear as mirror. Gaunt face, dark circles under desperate, angry eyes, teeth gnashing on long hair. Spite and malice reaching out as spit dries on bitten lips. Irises shrunk, scleras bloodied and maddened with hate and bitterness as man resists tearing gaze off his reflection, pushing pitiful morsels of magic through stone, through his bindings, through space.

It is a gamble. Gamble more likely to fail then accomplish anything, to waste almost three years of preparation and plotting and hoping and alert guards that they still need to watch him closely, but without risk there is no reward. He could work minor magic on himself, and divination always came naturally to Escanors ( fool would have thought spell was cast on walls, for it was through them he managed visions, lacking his sand, but walls, just like crystal balls and runes and entrails were but a medium, placebo more or less). Reaching out to Whisperers, who were his eyes and ears, dolls meant to serve as his vessels, created from flowers he planted and tended, from his blood and flesh. It is a stretch, but technically he is still doing magic on himself, and as Cedric taught him technicality is everything when it comes to magic ( that and blood, blood upon altar, blood upon stones, blood upon roses).

A mind that isn't properly sentient arises from it's stupor. It becomes-not aware, but recognizant of world around itself. It scans it's surroundings, analyzes and catalogues the strength of sunlight, the composition of soil, the network of roots tapping in waters below. It recalls secrets it keeps inside, finds holes and tries to determine which events it spied on have been lost. And it recognizes it's master, maker, owner, father, other-self's desire.

It takes days, but eventually it is fully active. From bushes it arises, forming from petals and nectar and wood. It isn't tall, it would barely reach shoulders of twelve year old, but that isn't bad thing- small spies can be worth more. It's waist is slim but strong, and instead of legs it has skirt of five petals, widening and spreading at bottom. Petite, branch-like arms, green like stalks and covered with leaves, too long and soft fingers like stems. Eyes as shiny as resin, long hair brown as wilted flowers, no ears and red stigmas for antennae, hair all over it's body, sweet red splotched with painfully bright yellow.

It seemingly floats above ground, taking in sunlight (for it was creature of bark and bone, not mismatched but perfectly joined together, and plants had far more superior method of nourishing themselves), recuperating it's strength as it drained tidbits of lifeforce from abandoned land, it's missing burning hot and bright as heated iron, running through it like sap and blood and confessions nobody should have heard, seeking animals to drain.

It would be a long way till the prison.

_Three hours and eleven minutes._

Though he certainly deprived many of such things, Phobos never intentionally went after friends and family of his enemies. If occasion demanded so, like whole fiasco with salt mines and rebel leader's father, he would use people's pathetic attachments to his advantage, of course, but he never went out of his way to endanger families of Guardians, or took parents and friends of rebels as hostages.

Not out of kindness or nobility, of course. If somebody claimed so (as Rathor certainly did, once before), Phobos would certainly laugh at them. It was simply that thought rarely occurred to him, and when it did he failed wholly to grasp it. In theory, he understood how those things worked, but when it came to practice, he failed to grasp why somebody would be so invested in wellbeing of another. Empathy always seemed like hindrance to him. His enemies claimed it made him weaker, because he couldn't understand how far people would go for those they loved. He thought that sounded quite childish.

So Phobos raided and hoarded. Attachments to items, to places and things, that made sense. Boy sobbing because his sister died was something Phobos couldn't comprehend and didn't want to. Child angry and screaming because somebody broke his favourite doll, now that was reasonable. Homes, toys, tools, inheritances, he could see why people cared so much for stuff like that. He himself would subject whoever destroyed his paintings or roses to unspeakable tortures. So his servants raided and stole, filling chambers and halls of palace with useless items left to rot, while his people wailed after all they lost.

_Five hours._

In Phobos's dreams there is no Sun. Sun is the providence and symbol of queens, the greatest gift of Leryn, the First Queen, Leryn the Founder, Leryn the Uniter. The old Sun died, so Leryn replaced it, for she was Light's best beloved vessel, and it was first thing she brought forth when she claimed Heart's power, even before she drove out Kahedrins. It has no love for the usurper, the kinslayer, the traitor to his duty as ruler, nor does he care for it. There is way to teach trees and flowers to grow even in darkness, and he had always been more partial to moons.

In Phobos's dreams there is no release, only screaming. Cells after cells line in infinity, each stretching through ages, almost as old as smooth stone they have been shaped out of. Cell after cell, twisting together like braids, like ivy growing over trunks, and inside is the past, the shadows, those who died before any human walked over meridian. They scream, for there is no penitence, no freedom, no key, only unrest and screaming, memory itched in stone and metal, that they have been free and now they are denied, water and stone and light baring them.

In Phobos's dreams a tower of bones rises in middle of wasteland. Nothing grows in that gray land, where smoke covers the sky, where great boulders of rock spill thick and dirty blood, where only sound is creaking of maddened crows. The tower rises from bedrock, seemingly growing from ground (for all earth and rock is made of dust, and what is now dust have once been giants), spikes all over it impaling those who would try to get near. It had no door and only single tiny window at very top. Inside, a grey willow twists and chants as he traces his hands over her knotted bark. One eyed crow stares down at him, and in distance owl hooks.

He doesn't remember his dreams. He fears nothing. He doesn't wake up sweating and shaking.

_Seven hours._

The meals are still awful. They are not poisoned, which is more then he would have expected, which is probably what he deserves ( not that any of those fools could whip up proper sadistic, effective and untraceable poison, but one doesn't become most experienced widower without experience). Though, he should probably count it his luck that he hadn't been executed in city square, or beaten to death by guards, or left to starve...

Elyon was truly too big fool. It was insulting, really. Did she not consider him important enough foe to get rid of him? She would pay for that slight once he got up.

But for now he only continued to eat miserable excuse for meal. He was certain his captors would have loved to hear him whining and complaining and begging, which was understandable. It really was pleasurable experience. So Phobos, who had eaten feasts from richest tables and fruits from most magnificent gardens (his own, of course), ate without protest, remembering first time he smelled rotting flesh and tasted poison, letting memories and spite carry him on.

He ate bread, which was stale and crumbled under his fingers, rough and dry crumbs littering his robes. He ate something that he supposed was meant to be salad ( he really should make death sentence viable punishment for incompetent gardeners), tearing pale green leaves in pieces and eating them one by one to pass time. After some deliberation he ate half of stew, sipping soup and abominations that didn't deserve to call themselves carrots, leaving chewy meat inside, letting fat cool and solidify in yellowish plates covering surface.

At least they brought water this time, instead of that disgusting slime he guessed was probably some sort of yoghurt.

_Five hours and sixteen minutes._

He counts.

It is only thing keeping him sane and focused, letting him remain Prince Phobos, the tyrant, the usurper, the kinslayer, instead of some pathetic, lost prisoner, who will waste away in dust, whom history will remember as complete failure. And he can't allow that. If he dies, if he loses, then his death will be in battle, or he will take his own life, if he must.

(He won't, he believes, knows this. He will win, he will crush Guardians, he will tear out Light of Meridian from Elyon's body, throwing it in Abyss of Shadows, for now he understood it was only appropriate place for such act, and then he will reign for centuries unchallenged, tormenting people until every spark of rebellion, every glimmer of hope is crushed, until their hearts are as dark and empty as sky of his world. He will know everything, he will govern everybody, they will take no choice he doesn't approve of. And when he tires, he will choose no heir, appoint no new ruler, leave behind no system for government after he is done, after he relinquishes Heart and goes into woods, when he gives himself over to green and roses.)

So he counts.

Seconds.

Hours.

Days.

Weeks.

He tries to recall, as much as he can, importance of each day, of each day. Historical events that happened in distant past, births and deaths of relatives (especially those of later that were his doing), phases of moon and alignments of stars (so important for some rituals, though Phobos never quite got grasp of such magics), dates he cherished for they brought pleasant memories (most of them coincided with funerals of relatives as well), the holy days...

He should have found some way to record it. Even mind like his couldn't hold it all inside. He heard stories of prisoners scratching and carving numbers in walls, but that was humiliating and in rare show of sense, he didn't have access to anything sharp enough for task (and if he kept it up, soon whole cell would be defaced with his counting).

He would just have to hope he guessed correctly.

_Five hours and forty three minutes._

Ragnar died in morning.

His wardens didn't mourn for him, but they weren't glad either. Ragnar had simply been one of thousands of soldiers working for Phobos, remaining loyal out of cowardice or greed, though so many defected. He caused no trouble, but surely pillaged countless homes and murdered hordes of innocents. He had no relatives they knew of, so his ashes were put in small, unremarkable urn in mass tomb that was unvisited and untended, where they put criminals nobody would honor but who wouldn't be remembered and reviled for ages to come.

He was Galhot, barely decade ago. An old, bitter man, a farmer from small village. Child of single children, widower for decades, which always got him pitying looks even from people who hated him, for being left without wife was greatest tragedy that could befall man. Their marriage wasn't blessed with daughters, who could inherit and run small estate they owned (which was to say, a cottage and slightly bigger garden), onyl two sons who arrived late in life, and died when they joined army of lady Primrose Escanor. He had no friends and no prospects, and sat awaiting his death in tiny cottage of unimportant village.

Then war arrived at his doorstep.

Her majesty, Weira Escanor and her consort Zaiden had mysteriously perished, and their heir, the newborn princess was lost. Which was tragic, he supposed, if you could spare empathy for people you never met, but didn't really impact Ragnar's life until relatives started fighting for title. Weira's sisters, the great duchesses Primrose and Natalya went to war, alongside dozens of cousins. They quartered up Meridian in neat pieces, and drew forth armies, by oaths of fealty they called upon, by fact that their vassals and serfs had no choice, by sword and spear, and by mighty magics they possessed. Lands Ragnar lived in belonged to eldest of three sisters, Primrose the Undying, whom no blade could put to rest, for she had skin of steel and blood of flame, or so stories went. She called forth draft, and all young women and men went to war, and didn't come back. That was normal.

But then one day a legion of soldiers came to village, bearing her banner, a wreath of flowers, black roses and ones that were her namesake, pierced by sword, on gray fabric. Village played host for them, for it was their army, and they hoped to hear news of their children, and because bunch of elderly folk and children couldn't afford to deny their queen's soldiers. So they fed them, and bathed them, and gave them all wine and cheese they had, which was almost nothing. But soldiers weren't satisfied.

Ragnar never learnt how exactly it happened, what slight caused fight that turned in rampage that left village dead and them all dead. He didn't care anymore, to be honest. Then he was angry and disappointed and hurt, but now he understood very well how great it felt, to have helpless civilian men kneeling before his feet, to rob homes of haughty headwomen, now he knew what wealth could be amassed from spoils of war, and pleasures of bloodlust. He didn't remember what happened exactly anymore to be honest.

What he remembered was that he crawled off to place where there was rubble, and dead bodies, and that he hid under corpses and rubbed blood over himself, and waited for soldiers to pass.

Waited, as limp bodies piled above him. Waited, as blood started to dry and turn brown on his clothes and face. Waited, as hot and humid air was filled with stench of corpses. Waited, as bodies turned soft and cold. Waited, as flies surrounded him. Waited, as decay set in, and pieces of flesh and skin fell on him ( or so it seemed to him, for he knew he couldn't have been waiting for more then day, yet he remembered blackened flesh and bare skulls). Waited, until soldiers left laughing and drinking their ale...

Soon, another legion passed with their own banner. Blooming black roses and thorns stood on blue background, carried by small legion of what were probably former criminals, mercenaries and confused villagers. Ragnar heard about them, army of Prince Phobos. Son of Weira, thirteen years ago, who dared claim throne (as if man could rule) and keep palace for himself. He wanted to make himself ruler, proclaiming himself his sister's regent, going to war against his aunt and rest of family. His army was small, built up from drafted citizens, and criminals released if they pledged loyalty to Phobos, and random commoners they came across and claimed. It was laughable. Armed, trained legions of his aunts would crush them, take back the capitol in matter of weeks.

But prince had magic.

He had magic, and he made hedge of thorns from up around city, warded it against rifts and portals and teletransporting, and with his spells he enhanced his soldiers, and created beasts from sand and stone to serve him. This twisted army spread across Meridian, at first using cunning, underhanded tactics, ambushing, sabotaging and raiding enemy camps, relying on their mobility, stealth, strange amount of information they received from prince himself, who seemed to have ears and eyes everywhere, and on forests, in which they hid, in which trees seemed to aid them, for they always heard enemy approaching while they themselves were never noticed.

Ragnar found three choices before himself. First, hide and die in woods. Second, let prince's armies kill him as subject of Primrose. Third, join, and over time amass influence and wealth ( get revenge). Choice was easy. He walked up and said he would like to join. They didn't deny him, for they needed men, and he was old enough he couldn't be threat. So he trained and spied and waited, and when time came, he became Lurden.

Prince came, smelling of roses, with hair longer then any woman Ragnar had ever met, and he raised his hands while whispering words none could make out. His eyes glowed, and they were remade, magic bursting through them, cold and cruel as gardener's shear, tearing them apart and remaking them. One moment, Ragnar had been screaming, and then he was younger, and stronger, and taller. He was great and fearsome, and he could pull wagons by himself, and peasants screamed when they saw him, and he towered over rebels, and it was worth it all, even if his skin always itched and he had frequent migraines, and he could never quite look at his face in mirror or water.

He had no illusions or loyalty towards what sort of man he served, like poor, self-righteous Raythor (who eventually turned traitor, and maybe it was irony, or maybe he had finally come to sense), babbling about honor and watching prince with obsessed, lovesick eyes.

Prince Phobos was vile, cruel man, and Ragnar served him because he was strongest and scariest thing out there, and because he never believed princess would return and that Sun would shine once more, and Rebellion was led by children and laid their hopes unto girls from another world, and then it was too late to defect, for none would trust him and Prince would execute him. And then he got out time and time again and it seemed he might have actually won, then he failed again, and Ragnar was back in prison. He refused to heed Tynar's words, and twice he assisted escaped prince. If he believed in justice, he would have agreed he got what he deserved.

But he didn't. He didn't believe in justice or regret, for those were useless ideals in world where violence and wealth reigned. And so he died in cell without a coin to his name, and he would not have proper grave, and no place to call home anymore. Souls have been known to persist on this world for less. Grudges and pettiness bound them to mortal plane, creating phantoms that haunted and ruined living. Shadows born of shame and resentment, attaching themselves to others and driving them mad, leaching off their life-force in order to sate their revenge.

Wardens. rebels. His fellow soldiers. Wicked prince. He could make them all pay, sneak in their dreams, torment them until they wasted away. And so he did, fluttering towards darkest dreams, towards greatest source of power. He wasn't whole, not anymore. Spirits never were, for bits of them always went on, went Behind, to await rebirth, and only darkest and vilest parts remained, ones full of desire and curses.

Those shades wandered world, losing themselves, growing thin and pale, until they were but shallow reflections of themselves, spirits filled only with regret and wanting. They slipped through world, with none to see or hear them, none to remember or venerate them, for they had no descendants to care for their graves, no daughters to carry on their names and legacy, and none who would remember them fondly, make offerings for their souls. They had no choice but to rise from graves and feast on blood, or to haunt dreams (for dreams were last border between mortal and spiritual planes), slipping in minds like worms, slowly eating their victims from inside out.

''Well, isn't this a pleasant surprise. I suppose you are here to haunt me.'' It was cold voice, tired voice, voice that was once nice and silvery but now had fallen out of use. Ragnar stood in darkness, and he shivered, for it was cold, cold unlike any winter he had ever experienced, and great and horrible shapes lurked in distance, and everything smelled of roses, smell so strong he was surprised he wasn't choking on petals, that there weren't brambles tying him.

''You are quite weak and boring spirit, you know. Whatever is tying you to this world must be neither strong nor petty enough.'' That was what strongest ghosts were made of. Either glorious missions that would change the world, tasks so important that death couldn't stop one meant to perform them, or something incredibly meaningless, so personal and tiny and stubborn that it mattered only to deceased, that it devoured them whole.

''What pathetic idea, what gall, to think you could feed on me. Still, I have to thank you- such wonderful opportunity you provide.'' And then there was cold, tight grip on Ragnar's whole being, as if somebody took him and squished him in ball, and pain like thorns dug in him, and then there was song, and light, and he felt as if he was crumbling, and darkness grew deeper as he heard wail and white hair wrapped around him and he was leaving this world and...

And magic returned to where it belonged.

* * *

Kaethe couldn't sleep, no matter how comfortable her chambers were.

Some days she still refused to see her insomnia as bad thing, no matter how much Miach badgered and pestered her about it. Her easily broken sleep had saved them from more than one ambush, and besides there were much more productive things to do rather than waste time on sleeping. She could practice her sword-fighting or her spellcraft, she could pour over battle strategies ( less common these days, but every once in while they heard news of Lurden bandits preying on people on forgotten roads), she could make new plans for infrastructure and taxes, she could continue trying to find lost relatives of her soldiers, she could help so much more by being awake.

(She could be free of dreams, of filth and blood and battle, and mother's head falling after ax swung.)

That monster, may his victims drive him mad and draw forth last drop of blood from his wretched body as their ancestors spat at him, was gone, but scars he left on land were far too deep. There were still places where crops couldn't grow, where trees were twisted and cursed, where brambles of roses challenged both swords and spells. There were entire towns that had to be rebuilt, and just thinking about figuring out water supply problems was giving her such headache that she wanted to split her own skull.

''_That is why we came here, no? At least in part.''_ She thought , swallowing shame that made it hard to breathe right. They needed help, and they needed supplies and money, they needed builders and architects, they needed actual soldiers and clear system of government ( as things still run on word of mouth and deferring to accomplished members of rebellion, who while brave and great soldiers, didn't know much about taxes and sewers), as well as teachers for all girls that needed education, and Sisterhood of Concord needed to reestablish their temples in cities that have been besieged by usurper, and none of them had good enough method of communication with other regions...

And so Miach and Kaethe Durathar, children of Machioness Deirdre, leaders of southern provinces and swamplands rebellion, came to their cousin to beg. Cousin who likely didn't know of their existence, cousin who had been betrayed and lied by closest family (Kaethe couldn't imagine how it felt, how she could have reacted if Miach plotted against her-she would sooner end her own life), who was raised on another world, who was forced to assume such responsibility at such young age, and now two actual, adult cousins showed up after so many years, without even letter sent, and then they would dare to demand help from her? Queen Elyon would have every right to have them all dishonored and banished.

Still, Kaethe got feeling her young cousin (who was raised happily, thank the stars, for there was hardly better person to find than Miriadel to be princess's mother, even if she wasn't allowed to provide appropriate education) would never do that. She was surprised when they met- she didn't know aunt Weira well, her family had always been closer with Natalya, and she only remembered that queen had authoritative presence, yet remained gentle. Elyon didn't care herself with pride and dignity that was more appropriate for marble statue, she didn't hide her feelings between mask of unflappable calm, nor did she trail through space like something otherworldly, made of starlight and dreams. She was much like Kaethe at that age ( if you ignored considerable size difference)-young, green thing, awkward and unsure, still growing.

And yet... Kaethe wondered if Elyon was aware of effects she had on them. Anybody with smallest gift for magic could feel it, and those with Escanor blood were especially weak to call of power that resided inside the queen. She was Light of Meridian, and sky and earth bowed before her, were part of her, belonged to her. Moment queen arrived Kaethe was lit up from inside, feeling warm and safe like never before. The air and walls vibrated with need to reach out and bow to her, and Kaethe was sure that if she tried she could hear a song, song that thrummed through every creature and every thing on Meridian. The Light inside her recognized them as blood of Escanors and reached out in greeting, in voice of all queens of past.

But there was more to her cousin than just magic, she knew that. She saw flame in her eyes, heard conviction in her voice. No matter how young and unsure, Elyon was queen true and through, the real heir of her mother. No matter the power and magic bestowed upon individual, she needed will and strong spirit to survive Phobos and fallen Guardian, to bring back the Sun, to start rebuilding Meridian in so many ways.

And to forgive. Kaethe heard rumors, but until they came to capitol, until she saw Lurdens working alongside former rebels, laughing with children, cleaning streets, cooking... Kaethe was unsure that she would ever be able to look at one of them without sneering. Perhaps, if she was willing to accept them, she would be ready to help Kaethe and her people.

A knocking interrupted her thoughts, soft and dull sound, and so she opened doors, halfways expecting guards to tell her queen changed

''Good night, Marchioness Durathar. I hope I haven't interrupted your sleep.'' And there was man Kaethe spent years dreaming of, how she would strangle him with her bare hands. Raythor, the leader of usurper's guards, stalwart supporter of Phobos, Knight of Vengeance- who in the end changed side, and plotted with Guardians to see his leader imprisoned.

''You haven't, but thank you for worry. And that title isn't appropriate- I haven't visited, much less overlooked my lands since I was a girl. If they are still standing.'' Kaethe didn't intend to let her words come out so acidic, but she couldn't help herself. Even if Raythor never led raids or armies himself, he supported Phobos. He was responsible for why half of assassination attempts didn't succeed, and he was still complicit in many wrongdoings-Great Circle that now towered above palace, made to open Portal to Kandrakar, wasn't built by free people, and Raythor was their overseer.

''I am sorry, my lady. I had no intention of insulting you. I can say that queen is working on that problem, and that you will likely see your ancestral lands back in your possession soon.'' That was surprisingly optimistic thought, which was why Kaethe didn't hold onto it. And thought there was no malevolence in Raythor's speech, and thought he raised no warnings in her mind, Kaethe calculated how long it would take her to jump to her sword, and where to blast him with magic. Just in case.

''That would be wonderful. Tell me, is that reason why you came here in this hour of night?'' He wasn't tenth as cruel looking or great as she imagined him. Perhaps his strength laid in tactics and getting people to obey him, not his own physical prowess.

''Well, not really. That is just general state, one of things queen is working on. I came here to tell you that queen had invited you, your brother, and whoever accompanied you, to share breakfast with her tomorrow, at eleven in morning, if it would please you. It isn't mandatory for any of you.'' Raythor stressed, and Kaethe remembered that Elyon was raised as commoner, and was still a girl- when ruler's messenger said something wasn't mandatory, every noble with grain of sense would schedule next three years around that one occasion if necessary.

''Thank you. I will spread message to my brother and our entourage myself. Good night.'' She shut door with bit more force than necessary, while considering what she just heard. Some of nobles she knew before everything went to hell would be aghast at thought of servants attending royal meal, but Kaethe had no such prejudices. War quickly taught you how senseless they were. Some queens in history were very strict on protocol. Others were accepting of fact that commoners were people, same as all of them, queen Weira going so far to actually marry one.

Yes, it seemed to Kaethe, if she had right to judge such things, that queen Elyon was going in supreme direction.

* * *

Phobos was five, and he already knew his aunt Natalya lacked common sense.

Natalya held great love for animals, breeding and keeping hundreds, which Phobos supposed was bit strange but then people said same about him and his gardening. Still, it got to point that Natalya and her servants couldn't keep care of them all, but didn't have heart to toss them all in river, leading to various complicated schemes how to get rid of them all without resorting to anything cruel.

Therefore, aunt Natalya decided to go for classic solution-hoist of all new arrivals at children, who are by nature unable to resist anything cute offered to them, especially when they have servants to actually care for little pests instead of them. So it happened that Natalya tried that particular tactic when Phobos and some distant cousin on his grandfather's side were visiting, with her newest litter of kittens.

Phobos was more fond of plants, which required more delicate care but were also far quieter (though they did speak, if you knew how to listen). Still, he had to admit that there was one kitten that was particularly cute, tiny calico cat with cutest tiny nose and golden green eyes. It seemed to like him, for it wobbled over to him and tried to sit in his lap, and cried when he tried to move it.

But of course, nothing could ever be easy. No, some random cousin had to start fuss and claim kitten for herself. Tynaria, barely year older then him but so far behind. Stupid, annoying child who thought crypt statues were creepy and who panicked when dog threw bone in her lap, as if she wasn't made up of them. She, who Phobos was pretty sure couldn't even read yet, and who was always so loud and wore awful bright colours, and bragged about her magical abilities, even though most she could do was produce some annoying sparkle.

So they got in argument, which boiled down to Tynaria screaming how she wanted kitten because it was cute and that was why she should get it, while Phobos, though understanding reasoning and sharing her motives, wrote down fifteen pages of nicely articulated reasons for why he should have been given pet. And because they were children who counted their ages in single digits, they started fighting. He didn't remember who threw first punch, only that he made some disgusting grimace and she said some rude words, and then she was tearing out his hair as he was throwing mud at her, and he bit her arm when she cast light into his eyes.

Adults arrived, Tynaria's parents fussing and worrying, his own mother apologizing while everybody juggled contradictory feelings that apology was accepted, that it wasn't enough, smug pride they got to experience queen saying sorry to them and that queen doesn't have ever to apologize for anything, while aunt Natalya tried to calm them down.

It was eventually decided that Tynaria, being older, girl and perfectly behaved while Phobos had hair below the waist, and willing to speak at length how she would care for and tend to kitten's needs forever should be one to get kitten. Phobos kept his face calm as Natalya offered him others, as Tynaria run in circles while throwing panicked cat in air, as she spent week rambling and bragging about how it was most perfect pet ever and that she wouldn't give it up for Crown of Light itself (she changed her tune years later).

So Phobos did reasonable thing, the only course of action that he could have taken. When Tynaria abandoned kitten, which warmed up to her though it was still scared, he stole it away, tied it's legs with rope (he was sure Tynaria knew nothing about tying proper knots) and started poking nad hitting it with stick. He didn't hit it as hard as he could, as he did to some other pets, because he didn't really want it to suffer much, or to make Tynaria distraught. He simply wanted to make sure she couldn't have it either. It meowed pitifully, but it didn't scream and wail, as would others, when he was older.

''And you are supposed to be prince? Tormenting a tiny animal like that, are you even aware how pathetic that is?'' The unfamiliar voice called out, raw and rough, almost a whisper, and it startled Phobos and silenced cat, and had that sort of tone that made it clear mouth it came out from was smirking . He didn't turn, not yet, trying to think up way to stop this newcomer from telling his mother what was happening., and how to show that he wasn't scared (which he would accomplish by focusing on fact he was being insulted).

''Didn't you want to have that kitten for pet, or I heard wrongly? Claimed you would care for it, be responsible and tender. And yet here you are now, torturing poor helpless thing like that. How horribly petty.'' He turned towards newcomer, holding stick as if she would be meeting same fate as kitten. Later on, when he grew, he would realize she wasn't so tall, but then and there she seemed like giant, like something out of darkest fairytales. She may have been handsome in unorthodox way, once, but now her face was pale and yellowish like old cheese, covered in wrinkles, and it was turned awkward and strange with age, cheeks hollow, jaw thin and chin too prominent, her forehead wide and covered by few stray locks of steely hair.

''It could be rather risky too, but I doubt you thought of that. If it was larger animal, or more aggressive, or you didn't tie it properly, what would happen? Have you ever seen somebody be torn apart by dogs? No, you haven't. Royal children are ridiculously pampered, and Weira was always a soft heart.'' Her robes were dark grey, wide and unflattering shape that showed nothing, with sleeves that almost dragged to floor. She tightly gripped her staff, and looked at him with eyes that were bored and questioning. He got feeling that if whim took her, she would cut him apart to see what was inside, and nobody would ever know what happened.

'' And it is inefficient. Just what do you hope to accomplish, tickling and scratching it with that twig?'' he knew who she was, even if he had never met her. His mother never spoke about this woman , out of shame and hurt, and so Phobos knew exactly who she was, this hag nobody in meridian or other worlds wanted to discuss. Secrets kept in silence were deafening, ready to reveal themselves to whoever might be ready to listen. And adults always forgot how good children were at listening, at making themselves unseen, at picking up whispers and rumors others tried to desperately hide from them. She knew it well, though she supposed she couldn't claim she had much experience with motherhood beyond childbirth and those first few years, with her beautiful, strong but simple husband.

He wasn't afraid of her. He wasn't. She was just an old, bitter hag, with memories of sorrow and darkness in her wake.

''And worst of all, it is boring.'' Phobos barely had time to jump at side when hag raised her hand, muttered some words he couldn't make out, and shot a stream of lighting at kitten, electricity crackling and dancing around her fingers. Kitten screamed, screamed as stench of sizzling fur rose in air, and then hag jerked her hand and it flew up. She moved her fingers, and it flew higher, then she lowered it , not quite on ground, and then she brought it up again, and let it levitate and spin in air.

''Now, don't you agree this is more preferable way to spend time and energy?'' Her voice turned sleek and low, hissing as if they were conspirators, as she waved her hands, and by force kitten was shut up, and then it fell on ground and started hopping, twisting, dancing like puppet, and then she made it smile and then she squeezed her fingers in fist and...

''Why are you staring like that? Are you really so sheltered?'' She asked, for Phobos's irises had shrunk and he dropped stick, staring instead at fur died red thrown around, at small broken bones rolling in grass, at blood painting branches and leaves. A second, that is all it took, and now kitten was in pieces, and she barely moved her hands. Could she do that to people as well? To boars and bears? What was range of her abilities? how long did it take them to develop? How great was she at peak of her strength? How powerful would she be with Mystic Heart at her side?

''You have got something stuck in your hair.'' Snapped out of his thinking, Phobos glanced at her, confused, before he trailed hand through his locks and found piece of flesh, splattered against his pale hairs, like ruby upon petals of white rose. He examined it for several moments, it felt slightly charred but cold, before he threw it away.

''Hmmm. Well, better than your cousins at least. I swear I don't understand how those brats can be so disgusted by bones, as if they aren't made of them. But then, what right I have to complain?'' She came near Phobos, who stopped instinct to run, and she plucked out blood and offal from his hair, then she examined his face, her fingers grasping his face, metal of gauntlets cold and sharp at his cheeks which still hadn't lost their baby fat.

''You are as useless as all of them, of course. No vision, no skill, no spirit. But you possess potential, to not be wholly incompetent. And don't expect to hear something this nice from me ever again.'' Then she let him go, abruptly, and he fell on ground as remains disappeared in flash of light. Woman walked away, some sort of glamour making it hard to notice her, and Phobos had to fight fuzz in his head as he followed after her.

'' I should turn you into a toad for this. I could have left you alone with that mess, to explain what happened, but instead I got rid of it. And now you are trailing after me like helpless puppy. Don't you think I have better things to do.''Phobos had sincere doubts she got rid of entrails out of some sense of altruism, if half of things he heard about her were true. That was probably why when hadn't chased him away yet, aware of what would happen if he told anybody he saw her. Even if nobody believed him, even if mother wanted to know how he learnt of her, they would all be wary.

''I know you were sneaking in library to read about magic. Do you know what I will be using all these ingredients for, or have they gotten rid of everything worthwhile in that hoard of theirs?'' Phobos shrugged his shoulders, and hag sighed. People were always so paranoid and restrictive about dark magic. Which made sense, as it brought power, and thus it was knowledge that had to be limited, which was just another proof that she was right in her claim that whole system was wrong and needed to be torn down.

''Of course. Well, come on, unless you want to loiter here, which will be much preferable alternative for me. You cannot play around with spells without knowing basics. And you will hardly find something more basic than blood magic.'' She waved her staff, and fold opened in front of them. For moment she glanced at him, as if she was looking at some particularly annoying rat, as if she didn't believe he would follow. That look, challenge and arrogance in it was what made Phobos forget to ask how long she had been spying on him and instead propelled him to go forward.

She didn't look back at him anymore, and they walked into fold with her ignoring him, but letting him hold ends of her sleeves, not that he was afraid of fold or wherever they were going, of course.

And that is how his apprenticeship began.

* * *

Thanks for reading, hope you liked it, please comment!  
So, in next chapter we will have breakfast and talk between cousins, from which we will sneak in worldbuilding. What would you like to hear about, meridian nobility, exact family history and relations between Escanors and Durathars, or how dead are venerated? or all?


	4. Invitations and Fears

Hi! Here is the fourth chapter, with some flashbacks and history. Hope you like it, please comment, thanks for reading.

* * *

Kaethe woke up at the crack of dawn.

Miach would have scolded her ear off for that, and so would have his (not) girlfriend, Missena, their resident priestess and medic (who therefore had developed instinct to lecture her cell about how they were endangering their health whenever she saw anything that could be constituted as danger to their organism, which to be fair to her they were indeed often guilty of). However, habit had served her well over years and Kaethe saw no reason to worry about it. If she was too tired she could always snatch half hour of nap, and it wasn't as if she was needed for much anymore.

(And anyway, better fatigue than nightmares.)

And anyway, earlier she rose, more time she had to prepare herself. Audience with a queen was no joke, even if the queen was not yet sixteen and likely wasn't aware of intricacies of royal protocol (one good thing to come out of Usurpation was that more or less everybody forgot elaborate, unnecessary ways politics permeated every aspect of royal life- in Kaethe's childhood, what sort of embroidery pattern you wore could be taken as sign of political predisposition towards certain parties). Kaethe would need time to prepare herself, to make sure she was properly presentable, because this was still royal palace and capitol, and not her swamp and abandoned bowels of Infinite City.

It took her hour, sorting through her chest and trunks to find something that she could in good conscience be allowed to wear at breakfast with queen. None of it was too ugly or old, even if Kaethe valued practicality over style far far more, but she had impression that if she showed up at breakfast in clothes obviously meant for surviving guerilla warfare, everybody would take it as implication she expected queen to attack her, and Miach would strangle her.

So she finally found some pants and doublet that were to be used for plain days, when they hid in tunnels and rested from assaults on food warehouses, and resisted putting some light armor underneath (she had been stabbed too many times by spies to forget habit, and as Missena often reminded her, _we are in time of peace and do you want to insult the queen?) _, as she looked at outfit she put together.

It was... well. It wasn't the worst thing ever, but certainly not fancy enough for the royal breakfast. It was nice piece, but it's blue fabric was washed out, and queen might not appreciate embroidery of black roses upon it, and it was missing a button or two, and Kaethe was certain it was at least two sizes too small. Sighing, she put her hands on clothes and started chanting, soft grey-blue light, same as eyes of Escanors, exiting her fingers slowly.

Kaethe had great magic, as did all women of Escanor blood, but whether due to some quirk of genetics, pure luck or circumstances of her growing up, her magic was brutish, thuglike thing, unfit for something as delicate and complex as glamours. She could throw down walls and tear flesh from bone, but to conjure illusion, or heal simple cut, or repair sword she was an utter failure. It took her half hour of concentration and whispering incantations ( wholly unbecoming of an Escanor, who stopped needing words to work spells at age of seven) until she managed to clothes in shape, and they still missed button, and her hands tingled as if she had been holding cold steel all the while.

( Her mother's magic felt like tracing hands over an ancient tree, feeling rough, peeling bark and heavy knots under her delicate fingers. Her grandmother's magic was like putting her hands in wool of sheep, feeling tangled, rough matter that would become threads and warmth of life beneath.

Aunt Natalya's magic was like eggshells, hard and sort of rough, but thin and delicate all the same, concealing power within yet so easy to break. Cousin Molea's spells felt like leaves of pine, fresh and strong, prickly and everlasting, cool to touch, and Vivianne's was like candle flame, warm and tender yet painful if it lasted for too long, and Letitia's was like bunch of butterflies, beautiful and brilliant and so lively and short-lasting, unless she was angry and then it felt as if thousand tiny insect legs were crawling over you.

Aunt Primrose's magic was like heavy, strong chain, reliable and thick, and more than capable of holding you for hundred years, of dragging you to bottom of sea. Cousin Tynaria's was like putting your hands in sand, feeling thousands of tiny stones drag and itch and tickle you, and Luna's felt like light of new moon upon your cheek, filling you with peace and quiet until you couldn't notice you, leading you to sleep.

Aunt Weira's magic felt like queen Elyon's, like magic of all queens who came before her and would come afterwards. The invisible, the ever-present pressure that permeated air and bones, that like gravity bent everything to it's will, dragged them all down to ground. Once, mother told her that before she became queen, Weira's magic felt like steam, hot and wet and untouchable and relaxing, pressing on you and easing worry, and in combat it turned suffocating and confusing. She had to wonder what Elyon's magic would feel like, without Light to suppress it.

Aunt Gloria's magic felt like silk, and petals, and feathers.

And they were all gone now, slain and some not even buried properly, and only Kaethe was left, to remember and mourn.)

* * *

_Calm down._

_It is nothing scary._

_Calm down, there is no danger._

_Calm down, you can do it._

_I am the queen._

_Stop being so nervous what is wrong with you?_

It was just a breakfast. Breakfast like any other, with her parents and two additional guests. two additional guests who were related to her, who were cousins, who were rebel fighters, who she didn't know at all and who were probably judging her for how unqueenly she was and who she invited to breakfast even if it would be awkward but not as awkward if she ostracized them especially after they implied they would die for her...

She was queen. She was queen of a whole planet. She couldn't afford to be awkward. being awkward and not knowing what to do was for normal girls, who had problems at school or stupid crushes or were just beginning to wonder what they would go for at college and still had no idea what they wanted to study and who went out at concerts and movies and new cafes with their friends. Those girls could afford to worry and stumble and have uncomfortable conversations.

But not Elyon. Elyon who was in charge of a whole world. Elyon on whom whole continents depended. Elyon who was more powerful than any man on Earth ( when she was nine she wanted to be president, and now she knows that if she ever accomplished that dream it would have been viewed as her taking on lesser role than what she was entitled to by Meridianites). And even if her parents went on and on about how she was doing amazing given that she was the third youngest queen in Meridian's history, and how Leryn the Founder herself was from Earth, she knew she had it easy. She didn't have to deal with politics at all, just make sure people were fed and housed.

(Another problem, to deal with later. Meridian used to have nobility, and thriving and complicated political system, for better or ill. But when her mothe- queen Weira died, they broke down in factions, and petty squabbles, and civil wars, and while they fought Phobos his city behind shadows and thorns and gorged hismelf on planet's lifeforce until he was strong enough to take on them all. Few nobles that survived were like Miach and Kaethe, destitute and banished fugitives who found home within rebellion as their homes were ravaged.

Elyon didn't like idea of nobility. It didn't sit well with her, of course, given she was child of twenty first century, but she was also currently reaping the highest possible benefit of nobility so she didn't have right to complain. And nobility served the purpose. It stabilized and divided power, made things more complicated and thus grounded the queen. It made everybody remember, or at least believe so, that queen was a woman and not goddess.

She would have to find something to replace it. Perhaps a Parliament?)

Three years ago, she would have been excited for this opportunity. Finally, a bigger family, relatives coming over for visit! Everything she dreamed of, since she was seven and was present at Cornelia's birthday and saw enough relatives to form gang and later asked her parents about her grandparents and cousins and got confusing answers that explained nothing. And she couldn't enjoy it, because something in her head just laughed and told her she was still dumb naive little girl who fell for impossible lies, and everything would end horribly again, and she could trust nobody, and she flinched when servants came close during meals...

She could do it. She had to do it.

* * *

_There is blood up to his knees._

_As these things go, Phobos reckons, he is lucky. It is hard to find dry spot in the place appropriately name the Bleeding Stone, where red rivers burst out of each rock and mountains drown in it. And, if you ask him, the bloody lakes are most cheery thing about it, the least terrible thing in this murdered land, where nothing grows and nothing knows peace._

_The earth he stands on is hard and cruel thing , cursed basalt black as dreamless sleep, as dried blood, on which steel shatters, on which not a blade of grass can grow, where neither worm nor cockroach nor tiny things that cause illnesses can crawl and live. There is no Sun, no stars, no clouds in that morose gray sky. The air is stale and dirty so much that it feels disgusting to breathe, and so weak and tired it cannot manage a lightest breeze._

_It is not hot place, nor cold one, but something else, a yawning gap that sucks out strength from flesh. But it is dry, drier than desert, perhaps, but only perhaps not as dry as the Sun itself, not a drop of water to be found miles and miles below. Mountains rise far too high to even guess how tall they are, filled with scars and cracks, and you must walk over sharp rocks that cover ground, seeking only to sink in the tender flesh, to tear apart feet and hands and innards._

_No men walk these lands and no animals make their home there and yet it is never silent. Embalmed heads stuck on pikes never stop crying, bones inside caves never stop screaming, shades that run trying to escape always flowing blood never stop moaning. They beg, dead who are gone and forgotten and imprisoned here, who will never know peace and release and veneration, who will never see anybody living and sane, anything beautiful and hopeful again._

_(Only, somewhere, where pools of blood are deep and mounds of bones tall and even dead dare not tread, do black roses grow, their blossoms tiny, their thorns so long and sharp.)_

_Every living thing in Meridian knows about this place, that can be found on no map anymore yet is there in every storybook, this thin and wretched place that none had seen in centuries ( some hope that life had finally reclaimed it, but it is far more likely that it learnt to hate and wander, and now slips through seconds and steps, waiting for fools and heroes to come to feed it). It is Meridian's greatest fear, greatest shame and tragedy of their planet and his family, and any who knew what happened would agree, no matter how they feel about royalty._

_Once, a beautiful valley, a land where two sisters used to play and dance with their friends, until they grew up and unrest claimed their hearts. And there, in that beautiful place, armies clashed as in air two queens fought, and power of Light roared free and terrible and full of sorrow and regret, and the rest was history, battlefield cursed and hundreds of lives los._

_That story, Phobos knows, is a lie._

_Truth is, there was once a bland, ordinary meadow full of weeds and useless plants (sentiment Phobos doesn't really share, for all plants can be put to use, but so story went and he had to respect that), and there army of ten thousand came, with their queen marching in front, beautiful and brilliant as lighting, with smile like breaking of dawn and eyes like diamonds, and she was proud and wonderful and her people loved her, and power of planet's Heart ran strong and hot through her, and she stood upon her horse in her armor and thought herself invincible._

_And then there was her sister, the elder one, the one none wanted, the one who would have ground Meridian under her boot, with her ragged robes and spite and malice dripping from her, and she sneered at her sister's army ( for only weak fool rely on others, comrades and friends and families) and as they marched and her sister unleashed her wrath, mad sister gripped her spear and laughed, laughed as darkness claimed them all, laughed as her long, wild hair sizzled from power in air, laughed as earth turned as black as roses of her wreath, laughed as she bragged above broken thing that she once called little sister, laughed as she tore out Light and grasped the bloodied crown, and then she sneered and stopped for she remember that each soldier had family and friends and hometown and she needed to give them lesson or two too..._

_In distance, tower of bones without doors rises above mountains, and the dead hide from it. Phobos doesn't think of it, for he knows what price must be paid for road to lead you there, and he isn't that desperate yet._

He doesn't fear his dreams. He doesn't, he doesn't, there is nothing to be afraid of.

_Three hours_

There were few things more irritating than ghosts, and that is the fact.

Perhaps some would disagree, and most wouldn't care, but Phobos feels he ahs authority to support his claim without sue of force this time. After all, he was educated in Sorenya's temple, under watchful gaze of generations of archpriestesses, including Zaiden's humorless but cunning mother . It was truly best place to be taught, even if prince and only child couldn't become priest, even if male priests could never rise to great ranks, that didn't mean he couldn't learn all lessons it offered.

(Pity it had to burn down. But you can't get power without sacrifices.)

_Three hours and sixteen minutes_

Ergo, one lesson every member of clergy worth their salt was that there were few things as annoying and headache inducing as ghosts and undead. Sure, a lot of charlatan priestesses made incredible amount of money out of convincing naive fools that they were haunted by angry dead and would need special, costly rites dangerous to priestess's health to satisfy spirits (practice Phobos found very clever, but still worthy of being put on chopping block- after all, Phobos had to tax his subjects, and he was pretty sure lying about angry spirits counted as blasphemy), but every once in while true priestesses had to deal with actual angry ghosts, and honestly there were much better ways to spend time than hunting down undead and figuring out why didn't they just cross over like everybody else.

Not to mention it was rude. Phobos wasn't big on manners and courtly etiquette, but once you were dead you should have enough tact to stop bothering living. The nerve of some souls was just incredible to witness.

Still, unwelcome visit of that ghost proved incredibly enlightening. Honestly, Phobos deserved to be dropped off the tower for not realizing it sooner. There was way for him to reclaim his power, if only he was smart and patient.

All spells required energy to be cast, and that energy usually came from lifeforce of caster. Some couldn't light a candle without fainting, while others could wipe out towns with only minor headache. And yet, in the end magic was still double-edged sword, power paid for with caster's own vitality, shortening lifespan to accomplish impossible, destroying internal organs to perform wonders. Unsurprisingly, Phobos found it far more preferable to leech off some other source, and store energy inside himself, regularly replenishing it. And he was smart about it, not like some of his ancestors and their enemies- he didn't bathe in blood or feast on young, he simply took a morsel of energy from whole population, slowly, over time amassing power from thousands and thousands. Sure, people eventually got sick and died and their crops failed, but it could have been faster. It could have hurt more. It could have been less effective.

_Four hours and seven minutes_

Lurdens, Beasts, Mogriffs.. All of them were imprisoned here. All of them were beings and people who entered in his service, and he imbued them with his power, making them stronger, shaping their forms to his needs, granting them abilities they couldn't dream of before, granting them new faces and names...

Cedric was his greatest success. Now, greatest traitor.

It would take time, and it would be hard work, and he would have to be very subtle unless he wanted to get detected, and spells placed on his cell would work to prevent him. Still, it could be done, stretching rules of wards, seeking loopholes ( still they used Nerissa's magic, and it was wholly based around words and agreements- difficult to counter, but if you figured out trick you could persuade it to ignore you) that would allow him to work magic on himself.

_Four hours and twenty three minutes_

The powers sunk in his soldiers, became part of them, but still remembered their origin. They were still of his essence, and if he was careful, he could pull on it, could call it back to himself. It would be slow work, because even new Mage could notice great rise in his energy, and it would be hard because he didn't have his cursed thorns and his hungry roots, and it may all go to waste if he didn't get out soon enough, but still he had to try.

_Five hours and thirty seconds_

So he closed his eyes, and remembered, and chanted as he bit and braided his hair.

_Six hours_

Sometimes he marveled at how stupid people were. They thought he would be content with being petty tyrant. That he would continue ruling from his palace, employing army, busying himself with new ways to steal land and money from poor idiots that were his subjects, that he would still keep his prisons full and bother with nonsense that were his secret police and court? No, he would claim Light of Meridian, and he would make his ancestors proud. He would take their lessons to heart, and surpass them.

_Six hours and three minutes._

Eriniya, the First Tyrant. The Mad Harpist, the Mother of Nightmares, Lady of Spiders and Worms. She who twisted and bent and played with laws of court as much as she played with landscape. Who played her harp, fashioned from her mother's bones and hair, as temples burned. Who filled Meridian with illusions and trapped whole world in endless dream, as her pets fed onto her subjects. Who kept seraglio numbering thousands, concubines changing each day- and thus she brought forth twenty six daughters, and one was bound to strike her down.

_Six hours and eleven minutes_

Gulga, the Swamp Witch. She of Hundred Eyes, Queen of Shadows, the Fearful One. She who craved throne since early age and made sure she got it, she who never wanted power for it's own sake but for how it could be applied, strengthen her position. She who wrote down thousand laws and spun her network of spies over whole Meridian, who made her invisible stronghold in middle of swamp and saw traitors everywhere, who executed new enemy of state each week, who censured all books and in the end fell when she tried to tap in mind of every person at Meridian.

_Six hours and nineteen minutes_

Layluna, the Hoarder of Flame. The White Virgin, Dancer Among Mountains, Rimebringer's Patron. She who was nice and lovely and sweet, who has temper worse than any storm, who raided her people till the last coin of gold and thread of silk, who spun for herself robes of funeral pyres and stole beauty of rainbow, who walked over seas and clouds as ice covered them and her people were buried under snowstorm after snowstorm, sparing only her own family- and didn't realize why they drove spear through her heart as she slept.

_Six hours and thirty two minutes_

Medissa the Necromancer. The Irresponsible, Solitary Scholar, She Who Denied All. A woman who had never wanted to be queen, no matter how obviously she was predisposed to it. Who was bored by court and their petty games, whose husband dared laugh at her non-human features, who shut herself away in fortress all alone and worked to test limits of magic, who forged monsters of stone and corpses and released them on Meridian alongside storms and plagues, who had to be fought by all of Meridian together, her home burned down and land salted over.

_Six hours and forty minutes_

Sylviana never claimed any title, for she had no need of them.

No history records her reign, her chapters blank and white.

Generations remember, and try not to speak, and silence is deafening.

She was greatest of them all, and maddest, and she still may be.

None dare still speak her name, for they dread thought of her, because she made them happy.

Not even newborns dared cry, no matter how much smiling hurt.

_Seven hours_

When Phobos reigns, he will need neither title nor castle nor army nor even subjects- his garden will be enough.

_Seven hours and thirty three minutes_

The capitol had many names over ages ( current capitol, because every once in while queen decided she liked some other continent better, or had to relocate as result of semi-accidentally turning valley in the sea), though most people think of it as The Capitol, First City or something else-after all, on Meridian there is no other nation, for how could any form and stand against those who held Heart of world?

_Seven hours and thirty five minutes_

Kologawata, Queen's Jewel is the eldest. It is after all, the seat of family of demigods, the wealthiest and most beautiful city in the world (and thus first one he robbed and sapped dry), city that if legends are believed once had roads of gold and diamond trees ( supremely hard to actually grow, but that didn't mean they weren't worthy of care), which is simply nonsense, because gold makes for rather poor and uncomfortable roads, and diamond trees need rather specific care- ones in his garden must have all withered by now.

_Seven hours and forty one minutes_

Bushkanata, Brain of Nation is second. Seat of government, where most important people are living and working (well, used to, until Phobos enacted his purges, thus leaving only the most important and powerful person inside it), and a microcosm of Meridian in sense, purest expression of Meridian and all it should represent, if some stupid nobles are to be believed (all people everywhere are as equally useless and worthless as each ecosystem has it's own incredible flora).

_Seven hours and fifty six minutes_

Fluwarosa, Rose of Clouds is next. Palace rises far, far above city, overlooking entire city, separating queen from commoners (oh how his mother loathed it when she thought nobody could hear her, wanted to bring it down, longing for her peasant home, but she couldn't, she had to be queen, to replace aunt who bore only one boy), and if legends are true once it floated in clouds, before Medissa struck it down.

_Eight hours and nineteen minutes_

Sullakreu, River-child is youngest epithet, but perhaps most accurate. After all, it is city built on dozens of rivers, some small as streams, others wider than fields, city that lives off fish and irrigation, whose fields know no drought. And each river has name and history and legend, and so it is said that you can know man's nature by knowing which river he learnt to swim in.

There is small but fast, cold and sharp river that runs through meadow away from houses of city, river that has no name but all know of it. It is place where you go at night to throw away wicked things, things you want to forget, things you want to get rid of it. Poppets of rivals, charms for curses cast on you, ashes of criminals, firstborn sons, effigy of winter...

He hasn't visited it in so long. Perhaps, when he gets out, he will first go there, to apologize. Spirits can hold bad grudges, but their gratitude is hard to lose, and all of them crave attention.

* * *

Raythor sits down at his desk.

What he is doing isn't criminal, or much suspicious, nor is it really scandalous per se, but even in Capitol, where every man is literate and where they are rather more progressive than rest of Meridian, by will and force ( queen Weira never stood for customs barring boys from higher education, which some took as great flaw, and it was pretty hard to claim boys weren't capable of certain trades, spinning and weaving and teaching excluded, when you lived in same city as the man who used magic), but it would at very least raise few eyebrows, or get him angry sneer, or mocking laughter.

Still, somebody had to write history, and who better than man on whose shoulders laid blame for what happened?

Now, smarter women than Raythor had discussed about merits and purposes of history centuries ago, and in future many much smarter women would write accounts of war for queen Elyon's return. And Raythor has no illusions about his writing style, or knowledge of sociopolitical cause-and-effect chain that creates wars, but he was there, and he can write down how prince grasped throne, and hope it would be useful to future generations.

There have been usurpers before, though none had been man. There have been wars, and sisters turned after sisters, and daughters rebelled against mothers. Some were as bad as their predecessors, others have been bad but in different ways, but they were all people. And yet, there were monsters, there were mad horrors that grasped power and ruined world, and raythor must write down how his former master accomplished it.

Eriniya, beautiful and madder than all of them, grasped crown from her sister's head, after she made nightmares reality, after she reshaped landscape to her whim, after her army finished foraging and rampaging. Gulga, smart and frightful, planted false evidence, and played games in courts, and made herself seem only one who respected law. Layluna, seemingly sweet and simple, whispered poison in her aunt's ears, and worked spells of deceit on her mind, and slit her throat as old queen slept. Medissa , who loved nothing more than her spellbooks, was crowned, and she ran away to abandoned fortress and surrounded herself with stormclouds and dead.

There are still places where mirages become real. There are still swamps where birds spy on you. There are still caves beneath frozen mountains, full of stolen gold. There are still monsters of bone and basalt walking the world.

(_No hint of Accursed Name, and that may be blessing, or calm before storm, before they all smile and smile again_).

There are still places where trees listen, and feast on travelers. Raythor sits down, and writes about day hedge of thorns rose to guard and capture city.

* * *

Tynar's sleep is fragile and short.

That has become a common thing for him, and all others who became Lurdens. He didn't know if that was accident, or if it had some actual, unavoidable origin inherent to spell (aside from tyrant liking to torment his subjects in pettiest way possible), but since they undertook their vows and became Phobos's soldiers, none could afford more than four hours of sleep, sleep that was rather easily broken.

For some reason, it didn't have devastating effects on their bodies. Magic ensured that fatigue didn't trouble them, that their instincts were well honed, their bodies well rested and full of energy, their minds sharp and clear. But always there was a fuzz at back of their brains, the ache deep inside their bones, always there was something dry and rasping behind their eyelids. Four hours was all they got, and they could easily be broken, by loud enough voice or too many people in room. Useful in preventing sieges but otherwise horrible trouble.

Not that dreams were much better. Those who just got transformed, were recently remade would often wake up screaming, until they got used to it. Nobody could properly remember their dreams, only that it was horrible, that there was noise and chaos, great claws and salt and snow... Such life turned you rough and empty, rendered your heart tired and hollow and deflated, your body working yet your mind so tired and spent, until you stopped caring, until you just waited for commands and got on with them...

Unlike most of his fellow Lurdens, Tynar doesn't miss dreams. He was fifteen when queen weira died, almost sixteen when hedge of thorns arose around Meridian, when ladies Primrose and Natalya marched against each other and prince Phobos. Sometimes, he still dreams about thorns bursting from ground, of black petals falling down like rain, of his brother pricking his finger and being twisted and bent in shape of rose, of rebel fighter splitting his father's head open, of his mother dying from dirty water, of his house burning down, of sleeping in cold mud.

( His parents had a storybook, an old and beautiful thing, painted by his grandmother and written down by some aunt of theirs, storybook about heroes of Meridian, brave ladies and cunning girls who faced down criminals and infidels. He remembers story of princess Sarissa, how she wrestled crown from her mad mother and freed meridian from nightmares.

Illustration of First Tyrant was his grandmother's greatest work, so she always claimed. He can still remember the cold smile, the sharp blue-grey eyes, the grey robes and red smears that might have been wine or blood, the jewel on her forehead, long, pale blonde hair that seemed to move like snakes , the glow of wicked magic around her...

She comes to him in his dreams, sometimes, and as she lays her hands on him her voice grows deep and tiny beard cowers her chin and her eyes turn green and he becomes Lurden as his bones fall apart.)

* * *

Marlene dared to hope that someday, there would be peace and trust to be found again in palace kitchens.

For centuries, perhaps since beginning of world, servants of castle had lived in some other world, in liminal state, caught between life of commoners and splendid existence none but highest of nobles could imagine. Meridian was like living creature, and queen was it's heart, one without whom life wouldn't be possible, the most important organ, of course, and yet body had many other parts, many other purposes.

And those were servants of the palace, who remained invisible, yet whose influence and reach was infinite. Whether it was just preparing food, or forwarding messages, they were ones who sat in background and made life possible, though history rarely made mention of them, except when it came to some cook being commemorated for her great skills, or housekeeper passing in legend for her incredible management.

Still, sometimes they did. Sometimes they made it into history and changed fate of the world, for better or worse. Queen Gulga would have never claimed throne if she didn't have her spies placed in each service and at each position, and perhaps Grand Revolt against queen Medissa would have never kicked off if Necromancer hadn't driven out each cook, maid and stable-hand from her keep. Rebellion may not have succeeded without information castle staff relayed about Usurper's plans- nor queen Elyon would have been captured.

During thirteen years of darkness, Triss had been pillar of their community, foundations of their home. She had been mother to orphans and doctor to sick, she had been nurse to wounded and priestess to terrified. She was one they rotated around, the bravest of them all, one who had always worked to spread will of Rebellion and kept spirit of faith alive within castle. Marlene remembered crying in her embrace when her parents had been taken away to Cavigor, remembered Triss taking over her shift when they heard Marlene's sister died in last skirmish (it was miracle she wasn't arrested, given that Diana was prominent member of Rebellion), remembered Triss bandaging her wounds when shefell and dislocated her shoulder...

And it was nothing but a lie, a mask of ugly, wicked hag who used them all for her mad vengeance. Staff would never forget that, would never forget that one of their own was such traitor.

* * *

One day, Vathek would grow to regret becoming prince Phobos's warden.

Oh, it sounded like wonderful idea. There were many who would kill for such important position, even if you were to ignore satisfaction you got from having tyrant under your thumb. Many who were unwilling to see such prized position go to former spy, many who accused him of using connections to queen's friends to get it, or of sleeping his way to top. Well, Vathek couldn't understand that, though he wouldn't perform his duty wrongly, but it said enough that days when prince was pompous and smirking and ignoring jabs of soldiers were the best.

There were days when he would go quiet, quiet as grave, but he was still unfortunately alive. Those were worst days, days when Vathek could feel his blood turn cold, when prince would be as silent and unmoving as a doll, staring at one point for days, and if he ever blinked, Vathek didn't see it, just as he could never see when Phobos fed or drank. They left him food, and when they returned there would be nothing left on plate, and more braids in his ridiculously long hair. It felt like calm before the storm, air filled with anticipation of some monster or twisted spell tearing Infinite City apart.

Today was one of days when prince abandoned reason and retreated in his strange delusions, tracing patterns on walls, mumbling songs Vathek couldn't quite make out, only that they all involved rebirth and kind Mistress Moon, and sounded like some distorted lullabies. Vathek didn't pay attention to them, nor to superstitious rumors of other guards, who claimed prince was trying to curse them, or spewing out prophecies about their doom, which led to all of them being unwilling to stand watch over tyrant, so duty most often fell to Vathek- and Olgarak, who insisted prince's ramblings were reason why he stopped drinking and started going to temple services, and Vathek felt no need to investigate how two were correlated.

One day, Vathek would sooner brave Layluna's Peak then spend minute more guarding that monster. But now wasn't that day.

* * *

''_I could be a painter.'' Boy says, as he kneels on cold floor, grey and cracked. His knees turn as purple as plums on his latest drawing, and still he doesn't shake. He cannot allow that to himself, even as sand digs in his knees, as dust covers his clothes. It would be lovely work, seeing world and translating it through his lens, with charcoal and paint._

''_And who do you think would commission you? People want to see happy things. People want realism, not your macabre drawings.'' She looks like illustration of some nightmare, hag that slithers around him, like vulture around prey that shall soon die and become meal. Too dark, too strange, too grim, too unreal, they say of what he makes, and she is only one who likes i even as she scoffs and doesn't admit itt._

''_I could be a writer.'' He always preferred writing to speaking, and he liked plotting stories, and composing poems, and his tutors were always amazed by his essays. If he could live like that, he would dare try flying, try jumping down from tallest tower of his mother's palace._

''_How did that work out for your great-grandfather?'' She asks, and he cannot reconcile pictures of her youth with warped, wrinkled face before him. He thinks of his great-grandfather, and how they married him, how he wasted years on alcohol and bitterness and took out hate on his sons, how he kept poems under pillow and took poison to escape prison of boredom and obedience that was marriage._

''_I could be a bard.'' His hair is long, longer than he is tall, nearly white, and if anybody wanted they could have easily dragged him over floor by it. He has some skill with harp, and he is best of altar boys, they don't include him in choirs because his frenzied singing overshadows all others. He once even made his stepfather's mother, that dour and joyless woman, cry._

''_I doubt even Weira would allow it. You know what they say of adult men who devote themselves to music.'' There is scorn in her twisted face, one she always has when she thinks of how stupid and ignorant people are, especially compared to her. Phobos thinks of ugly words his grandfather doesn't say when he sees Phobos's long hair, and beautiful boy by river._

''_I could be a spinner.'' He knows how to sew and embroider too, but spinning is his favourite, ever since day hag taunted him, and he sat at her spinning wheel and imitated her until his hands bled. It is fun, and calming, and powerful and respected position._

''_Nobody at court would believe you, and if you tried that in some far away village they would have called you deviant.'' She made her robes herself, he knows, she didn't ever need to learn to spin but she wanted to, she showed him how to do it though she never said ''this is lesson, this is what you must do'' and she made them as ugly and boring as possible and still they looked impressive on her, this witch full of spite and fanatic belief and poisoned quintessence. And she is right, spinning is only for women, just like magic, just like ruling, just as right to their own surname._

''_I could be a gardener.'' His hands are full of scars from thorns. He is already gardener, he was born for flowers. He can't live without them. Let them take it away from him, he will throw away his life._

''_You could turn desert in forest, and still you would be man and royal. You have duty and nobody would accept you.'' Because man can't tend earth, it requires knowledge and gentleness and patience only women are capable of. Phobos shudders at thought of what witch in front of him would bring to life if she tried her hand at gardening, something full of poison, an apple to send him in deathless sleep, a pomegranate to bind him to underworld._

''_I could be a priest.'' They think he is sarcastic when he says so. He isn't. Let him go away, let him renounce titles and lands, let him never marry and never hold power. He will live in monastery, he will fast and handle writings of saints, he will bring offerings to spirits, he will give his life in service of gods. He doesn't even have to participate in rituals, lead communal prayers. He could take vow of silence. Anything, he just wants to serve._

'''_... And how high would you rise? Do you think they will let you handle anything more complex than child's prayers? Do you think they will let you read ancient sacred texts or compose new hymns? You think those charlatans wouldn't use you for their politics, that they wouldn't invent scandals worthy of being banished to convent.'' Her voice is quiet and raspy, which is closest she can get to comforting. She drags her yellowed, withered hand through his pale hair, her long nails tearing at his scalp. He is sure blood will be flowing. Hag doesn't give tenderness without price of flesh and bone to be paid._

''_Then what am I to do?!'' He wants to scream himself raw, and he wants to go back to being forever silent, and he tugs at his hair, and no tears come to his eyes. He has tried to be proper and good and even nice to his cousins for years, he speaks all the time now, he eats like polite sweet young man, he doesn't ask about magic, he doesn't run away from balls, and yet what does he get in return?_

_They are still angry they can't cut his hair. They still want to ruin him._

''_Same thing every man is to do. Smile, marry and make daughters. You could do it easily, you know. You are pretty even if your hair is too long, and from what I remember women love their husbands silent, they think it is same as obedient. So you can do same as billions of men have done before you, rage and whine then take the veil...'' How cold is her voice, how detached, how bored are her eyes. He doesn't know what he expected from her, she who only let him figure out curses and bloodwork on his own, she who showed him pain of dark magic first hand._

''_... and then deal with it.'' He can only gape as something resembling joy comes (and then soon enough flees) across her wrinkled, ugly face. Were Phobos more foolish, were he young enough to believe hag may hold some affection for him, may see him as something else but tool for her vengeful goals, he would think that is a pride._

_Three months later, prince Phobos becomes widower for the first time._

* * *

Thanks for reading. Next chapter will be breakfast, and focus on Raythor and rebels (and bit of info about Phobos's marriages). Thanks for reading, hope you liked it, please review.


	5. Expectations

Elyon draws.

She knows it isn't good idea to draw when she should be sleeping , resting, gathering her energy for troubles and complications yet to come, for there are always more of those, but sometimes her head is too full, close to bursting, and there are ideas crawling under her skin, scratching themselves over her brain, and she simply cannot ignore them.

It is, at least, something that still makes her normal. On Earth and Meridian she had learned, both by word of more experienced artists, and through her own trials, how fleeting and capricious inspiration was. She could have creative blockade for moths, almost failing to draw even sketch figures, and then at most inappropriate time it would come to her in a flood, screaming in her head until she had space for no other thought, until she put it on paper, until her mother came to shoo her away, because it was past midnight and she was sketching put storyboards for newest comic she had thought up.

You couldn't do that by magic. Not even magic was as in fairy tales- in fact, Elyon would dare say that sometimes , doing things mundane way is actually way easier. Magic was as finicky and hard to control as wind, and as delicate as hammer. Great when you needed to fly or call down rain of flame or shatter walls or tear open folds in space, but absolutely useless when you wanted to draw a vase of flowers at one of six panels on small paper. All you ended up with was graphite marks everywhere and shredded paper.

(Unless- you were taught, for magic was power and ability like any other, and it had to be trained and properly channeled to be useful. Elyon could wish new sewer system in existence, but that didn't mean it would work well. She knew nothing of how it operated, how big it had to be, what materials had to be used in it's construction. She could wish for plane to appear, but it wouldn't be abke to stand, much less fly. You could only change and control what you understood, and that was why big things were so much easier to accomplish than elegant, complicated tasks.

It was easy to burn down forests, and almost impossible to bake bread.)

(Unless- you trained yourself, pushed yourself beyond limits to accomplish something like that. You took power inside you, and you bent and shaped it until it suited your tasks. You took ore, and created thousand scalpers from it. Your mind had to be in right place for it- or wrong one, depending on how you saw it. You had to train yourself to see world through cold, hungry eyes, to cut and tear and put people in boxes and dig out what was inside them and sort it like clothes you didn't care much for beyond their practicality, dividing life around yourself into barest components, into what you could do with it, until people became not even tools, but faceless mass of pawns, deposits of clay ready to be shaped by you.

There was never, they say, a sorceress as precise as Nerissa.)

(Unless- you held Heart of world, and then reality was yours to play with. No understanding needed, because you made demand and universe obliged you. Just a wish, and you reached in fabric of world and remade it to your desires. That's how she kept herself stocked on pencils and sketchbooks, wishing them in existence so she wouldn't have to ask her friends to bring them from Earth, though she wanted to see them so much, but she couldn't be burden. And still, it wasn't as rewarding as when you actually made art yourself, and that line of thinking could lead to changing people very easily.

What did right and wrong mean, when you could change their personalities, turn back the time, steal memories?)

There wasn't much market for comics on Meridian, and unfortunately but naturally people felt uncomfortable, if weirdly flattered when queen asked them to pose for portraits, so still life and nature was something she had to settle with (it wasn't so bad- she really needed to practice her backgrounds anyway), and after hours of reviewing inconsistent and confusing charts of night sky (it seemed that everybody drew new one every few centuries, and she wasn't able to determine whether it was due to capitol changing position or what) she had decided to try her hand at creating map of stars, one that may even be helpful to would-be-navigators, or astronomy professors in schools.

It had taken many conversations with her parents and maids, to learn proper positions and names of constellations, to be able to memorize them, and wow, only now did she realize how much she took North Star for granted, and how she never realized how bright and clear night sky could be. Most of old maps were allegorical pieces, showing off constellations in form of animals and weapons and heroines they were named for, and those were some pretty impressive, if little gaudy illustrations, but Elyon wanted to create something bit more realistic, not show off her gift with details- being able to count hairs on moon's head was amazing, but not really useful if you were trying to orient yourself on sea, she suspected.

(Early on, Elyon learnt that though Meridian had two moons, when people said that word they referred only to one. The Tidetamer,spirit of sea and rebirth and prophetic dreams, who stood proudly in sky and guarded people from wicked spirits, shown in allegories as princess with crown of silver seashells.

The second, pale and small and far away, who seemingly stood at edges of horizon, people didn't speak about, except in curses. The Rimebringer, spirit of winter and undead and nightmares. perhaps it was just superstition she had absorbed, but whenever it was full Elyon felt anxious looking at it, as if it would climb down and turn in monster, and try to fly away with her.)

But then again, maybe she was just over in her head. Maybe all her work was foolish and useless. After all, sailors had exited for centuries, and she honestly doubted that somebody like her could significantly improve anything. They likely had their own normal maps, much better made and more accurate than whatever she could doodle. Who was Elyon to just randomly decide people needed help, that she was qualified to aid them, to think she was capable of improving their life?

But that was what everybody expected from her, and she couldn't leave them hanging. Besides, drawing did calm her down, at least for some time. And she had never thought there could be so many bright stars in sky, that you could find something like that only in movies...

She only needed to figure out how to hide her eyebags. It would be undignified to see them on queen.

* * *

Caleb was happy that Meridian was free, of course. But sometimes he found himself longing for days of war and dark magic, because at least then it wasn't so goddamn boring.

(Not boring, to be honest, but unbearable. Peaceful life didn't agree with Caleb anymore, just as open skies and wide woods weren't places for domesticated birds. He woke too easily, on too comfortable beds, in too lavish rooms. He run too fast, and still spoke too quietly, and had to remind himself to leave sword at home. There was unrest that refused to leave him, something constantly crawling under his skin like mad gnats, and sometimes when it was quiet it seemed as if his brain was bursting with thoughts busting at speed of airplanes, and they were so loud and refused to stop and he could not put that energy to any use...)

Being castle guard was great honour, of course, even if it was more than bit awkward given that his dad worked alongside him. But honestly it wasn't really much work, given that (thankfully) pretty much everybody who could be a threat had been safely locked up in the Infinite City (and a crystal), and Caleb was happy to leave it's green walls behind, even if he missed them sometimes. These days most of his job consisted of overlooking repairs done to castle and around city, and fighting remains of Phobos's most vicious forces- his garden.

Calling it garden wasn't really correct. Garden implied boundaries, limitations,something corralled and controlled. Phobos had grown flowerbeds inside castle's solars, and vegetables in library, and swamps inside cellars, and there was moss in foundations and tulips between walls, and unless they were carefully removed and replaced (which meant, no magic), whole palace would collapse on itself. Which was far easier said than done.

First problem was that usurper had taken every piece of vegetation from all around Meridian, and most of botany that grew in universe, and few things they couldn't be sure were native to reality at all, and stitched it up in one giant, wild and sprawling abomination that contained miniature version of every biosystem in Known Worrlds, until it seemed more accurate to say there were bricks and rooms in between jungles and meadows.

Second problem was that he experimented on damned things until they were almost untouchable. Damned things had proven themselves able to survive for at least year without water (before they themselves sought it out), and were apparently fireproof and resistant to most known poisons and salt.

Third problem was that plants fought back. This fact they found out when one cook tried to harvest some onions from dance hall and ended up knocked out, carrots trying to break her bones as pea held door against maids that heard her screams. Nobody ever saw them move, but fact was that whoever tried to destroy eve few herbs ended up with bruises and broken ribs. North tower was especially bad, as Caleb was growing increasingly convinced that lillies and peppers were developing latent talents for guerilla warfare.

(Those plants were used to prince kneeling to, because, for them, feeding them clearest water and humus made of his enemies and his own blood. They refused to accept anything else).

Few times he had even considered calling Guardians for help, but he was well aware that it would be both inconsiderate towards their own, far more important missions ( they had just dealt with that mess with Ragorlangs, and already they were running off to deal with some other crisis, on a world divided in black and white kingdoms), and furthermore insulting to dignity of Meridian, implying they needed such extreme help for every magical problem.

Even if it would have been lovely to see Cornelia again. Oh, they were managing with long distance relationship thing, all right, but it was far cry from those days when they spent months together, riding across worlds (well, to be honest, running from, enemies, but still), Cornelia showing him weird intricacies of Earth society as he taught her how rebellion had fun. And he appreciated her in all her aspects, of course, but there was simply something incredible in seeing her in Guardian form, dragon's wings at her back, stones and trees bending at her command, and all ordinary people like him kneeling before her strength and power...

But that was bit of his ego talking. After all, he was still a boy, if recently come of age, and young men at his age loved nothing more than to compete. Since Sun had first arose above Meridian, young men had fought for social clout and respect of peers by bragging and flaunting accomplishments of women who courted them (and oh, Caleb knew and accepted long ago that Cornelia most likely wouldn't marry him, but he was allowed to dream), and there were few things as great as faces of people who had to accept that _Caleb_ had managed to win over girl, and such powerful, brave, well-connected one at that!

Well. That sounded bad, as if he was some sort of gold digger, but still. Sometimes he simply couldn't believe his luck, that young woman as wonderful and perplexing as Cornelia Hale had taken interest in him.

He would listen to her complaints about latest failed sale for days if he could...

* * *

_Five hours_

The Sisterhood of Concord claims that men and women are equal. This is why, according to them, men should never be allowed access to education or authority, because that would demean them.

_Five hours and six minutes._

Everything in world, according to the Sisters, has it's place, purpose and rights. Everything is by nature preordained, and everything is special, and beautiful, and perfect, and incredible , because it has it's role which nobody else can fulfill, because while it may be absolute failure at one thing, it excels at another.

Virtues of a woman are leadership, wisdom, kindness, courage and strength. Woman is mother, teacher, queen. She is heart of community, one who organizes and negotiates, one who looks out for all others and helps them work together to accomplish their goals. She cooks food that sustains her family, she spins and weaves and sews clothes that protect them from thorns and cold, she creates life and raises children in people, she teaches future generations. She recognizes beauty in world around herself and nourishes it.

Man is no lesser creature, for two are needed to have family. Just different, simpler, attuned to less complex and deep aspects of life. For no matter how high and mighty some could rise, world needed ordinary people to keep things running. Body needed brain and stomach, castle needed queen and janitors both. A father was one who assisted mother, man was one who brought what woman needed to secure family. Men possessed beauty within themselves, were fairer gender, and their other virtues were those of fidelity and humility, of honesty and obedience.

(Mother gave birth, so it was through her that ancestry was traced, her right to pick out names for children, her surname husband took.

Man could become hunter, or warrior, or priest, or or cook, perhaps even blacksmith. Sure, nobody would sing songs of beasts he slew, and he couldn't become general, or officiate marriage or preach in temple, he wouldn't ever become head cook or make pastries, or be called talented craftsman. But he could try.

Man couldn't be called artist. Man couldn't own his own lands and money. Man couldn't sew. Man couldn't rule.

Man couldn't use magic.)

_Five hours and thirty four minutes_

One of his mother's most unpopular decrees was one that made it legal for men to get education. Nobody openly opposed it, of course, because when queen said something was to be done you didn't oppose it, even if you believed it to be sin, even if you thought it madness, even if most noblemen and population in big cities was already mostly literate, even if queen had never thought of using her powers to compel and punish others.

(She was more than bit masculine in spirit, as Phobos was feminine. She was used to denying herself, just as Phobos found no shame in wanting.)

Almost century and half since she made that decision, and still there were parts of Meridian where men were forbidden to, and didn't think they were meant to, to learn to read and count. Still there were places where man entering library or school would be asked whether he was seeking relative or cousin working there, and if he told he wanted to learn he would be mocked, thrown out, looked down b neighbors, screamed at by his parents...

Of course, just because Phobos and his noble peers were taught history, and how to read maps, and how to read contracts in several documents, and divide and multiply didn't mean they were allowed to become scholars. Many battles Phobos had waged with his tutors, royal librarians and his cousins, over sneaking out books of philosophy and botany, seeking out treatises on religious reforms and art techniques, battles won partially because he had been relentless, and partially because his mother allowed it without slightest hesitation. Her sisters chided her for it, pointing out how they reigned in their own sons and grandsons, but Weira was queen and didn't have to listen to anybody she didn't want to hear, and even Phobos's aunts knew that there was no way he could ever have been as interested in proper boy's amusement, for their grandmother's blood had bred true in him.

_Five hours and thirty nine minutes_

Each Escanor woman was special, even those who weren't lucky enough to become queens. And of them all, perhaps none was half as unique and exceptional as Gloria Rosa Aelia Aurelia Escanor. It was questionable if ever there was a woman as devout and faithful as her, and if any other could ever surpass her. Famed for her wisdom and modesty, Phobos's grandmother had rejected calling of queen, though none had more rights than her- a sign of madness, he often thought, and set out to live as ordinary as it was possible for an Escanor.

Whereas even lowest barons had lived in rich manors and possessed several estates, Gloria Escanor had set aside her jewels and lands, and thus future queen of Meridian was born and raised on a farm. True, it was big and beautiful farm, and always she had lived comfortably, but it was questionable whether there was any princess that lived more humbly than Weira Escanor, even ones in exile. Gloria had built house and tended fields with her own hands- thought sorceress of her power and training could have created city with snap of fingers- and crafted her home's furniture and dishes and windows and painted it's walls and fixed it's roof all alone, and soon village had built around it, for it was prosperous region and there were few places safer than life under nose of former Escanor heiress.

(Gloria herself would have likely preferred some far humbler abode, such as a hovel in uninhabited valley, or at best next to some dreary monastery, if she ever became lonely, but her husband was used to finer life, and her sister the queen never shared her sister's dedication to religion, and they convinced her children will need comfort and community, and she concessed to that, because farm in village was better than life in palace as far as she was concerned.)

As was only natural, people flocked to Gloria's side, practically forcing her to become leader, delighted to have been granted right to live next to her, for they were only commoners in middle of nowhere separated by ocean from continent on which high nobility lived, and there was princess Gloria herself, living among them. And so she took duty upon herself, and built barns and houses and library and school and temple, and tried living like ordinary teacher, giving her lessons to all who came to her.

Raised in such home, it was no wonder that people said Gloria's children took sustenance from reading instead of food, for even with giant library you could barely walk through house without bumping in stacks of textbooks thrice as tall as tallest man. Gloria's children learnt to speak dead languages of other worlds and could recite most complicated algebra theory like nursery rhymes, even her only son. This greatly worried, disgusted and displeased his father, who was still famed in songs as perhaps most desirable husband since world began. Which of course meant that he never dared question, disobey or critique his wife, mother, in-laws, daughters or any priestess or spinner ever, and that he was perfectly aware that his wife was superior creature that could have any man she desired, while his only worth was in his good looks, nobility he was born into and three daughters he helped conceive, no matter how much Gloria tried to dissuade him from such thinking.

Indeed, Weira saw nothing wrong with her son's bookworm ways, and honestly would have been concerned if he was anything else.

She should have been concerned when he started researching poisons and coups.

_Six hours and three minutes_

Were Phobos a woman, he would have already been named sixth of Evil Queens, joining likes of Layluna and Medissa, for though in meridian's history there had been bad queens, and incompetent ones, and unpopular, only rarely did ruler manage to inspire whole world in rebellion and demand Kandrakar's intervention.

(Were Phobos a woman, he would have already been executed and his corpse torn in pieces and buried under consecrated ground, for queen Elyon's advisers wouldn't have let themselves think he was powerless enough to never again be a threat.

Were Phobos good man, and Weira and rest of Escanors lost and Elyon hidden away because of some horrible tragedy he wasn't implicated into, his tenure as regent would have been erased from history, or made in laughingstock he would have been in life, or it would have fallen upon his wife's shoulders.)

Still, he had to admit he was baffled when Miranda came to him with weekly report from secret police ( who weren't as effective as his Whisperers, but far more practical to get by and spread, and though they weren't as loyal there were many things people would do for sake of important position), and Whisperers spying on castle staff confirmed it, that his most recent decision had caused upheveal and dissatisfaction among even his own forces.

Now, Phobos had never cared about popularity. That kind of thing wasn't really something you could hope for when you decided to become evil overlord and drain lifeforce of planet itself and engage in experiments with dark magic to create powerful, ruthless and obedient soldiers. being popular with people could get you very far, but being one man army got you farther, so whether it was matter of practicality or laziness, Phobos had made his choice on that front long ago, and now it was too late to turn back.

So he had to admit that he was curious. What dastardly deed had he committed that earned true disgust and wariness of his fear-stricken legions? What was it that made his Lurdens gossip about how deviant their Prince was, that left his shapeshifting Beasts gape open mouthed with shock, that that gave servants rights to grumble about indecency, that gave priestesses courage to publicaly cry out about moral degeneration, that gave his alchemists strength to complain about shameful misconduct, that made even Raythor look upon Phobos strangely (well, more strange than before, and Phobos felt easier with this gaze of confusion and unease then usual one, one that made him think that Raythor may actually think him good ruler)?

It wasn't open revolt, of course, and Phobos was aware that his forces held no loyalty towards him. They were collared by his power, and promises of wealth he had so far upheld, and they hated him as much as they feared him, and didn't act out against him because they got fresher food than most of Meridian. And yet, somehow he had surprised and displeased them, to the point they thought they had right to whisper and complain, as commoners did when he _convinced_ Sisterhood to move out of city.

That sort of thing, people thinking for themselves, finding some line unwilling to cross might prove useful to Rebellion. And Phobos had to admit, he was curious what sort of misdeed stoked embers of morals of his troops? And could he do something even worse, convince them perhaps that he was evil itself given form, a god of sin and misery? And so he dispatched his Whisperers, ordering them to focus on seemingly insignificant chattering of citizens and servants, no matter how silly and personal they seemed.

He didn't know what to think once he received his answers.

Recently, prince Phobos had realized that warmongering and dungeon filling were, although quite fun, not meant to be his primary occupation, as castle and his kingdom needed more than that to run. To that end, he had employed and commissioned seventy cooks, three hundred and forty maids, sixty nine smiths, fifty stablehands, nineteen architects, four hundred and sixty builders and nine doctors, with plans for more, for castle had been grievously damaged during wars he led against his relatives (starting with very first night, his mother's death literally bringing down roof over their heads) and though it's population wasn't as grand as before, nor did he plan to make life as comfortable for his troops as it was during his mother's reign, some things had to be done .

For sake of his own interests, whether those be hobbies or plans to advance his conquest, Phobos had employed twenty gardeners, fifteen alchemists, nine thaumaturges, six historians, seven bards, two poets, seventeen painters and four sculptors. They, of course, had highest pay and enviable positions, such as fact that Phobos granted some privileges to their families, and that they and their works receives prestige over whole Meridian. And he had suspected there was some bitterness over that, but though it made perfect sense, he failed to guess what truly awoke people's ire.

Five of those individuals were men.

_Seven hours and thirteen minutes_

There were many reasons why Escanors, in some farther reaches of planets, were equated with mythical creatures, and why some historians and scientists that lived near their palaces and manors argued they should be seen as separate species, aside from some of his more smart foremothers working on inspiring religious following among populace. One of those reasons was that Escanors held secret of eternal youth.

Well, not really, but it was close enough to truth of matter that most people didn't care for technicalities. Thing was, magic always left traces, changing people and objects imbued with it, and magic of mystic Hearts was immense indeed. There was reason why current Guardians, just teenage girls, were able to go toe to toe with experienced warriors, why their predecessors were able to keep up with them despite their advanced age, and why they could suffer injuries that could have, should have killed them. How many times had they fallen from heights high enough that they should have broken neck, or how many times were they smacked in walls of stone without their spines breaking. The Hearts were origins of life force of whole planets, and to hold on them was to obtain some of it, amplify your own health and lifespan.

And Escanors had been vessels of Heart for thousand and more years.

it wasn't truly a secret, just something that came naturally to them, even to males. Should blood of queens flow through your veins, you would be able to partially control your aging. You couldn't turn back the time, or stop death after few centuries (though some tried, of course), and it was very much tied in subconsciousness and guided by one's mental state, but hypothetically, and not so hypothetically, Escanors could guide and command length of their childhoods, and how fast they grew up. There had been Escanors who remained preteens for generations, and jumped to adulthood in single night-something many preferred, for though it could be disconcerting, that way they skipped all embarrassing, unpleasant troubles puberty brought, and their minds and emotions immediately adjusted to thinking and reacting like actual, if little sheltered adults. Thus, many people believed that Escanors stopped aging after around twenty, and even some historians and alchemists living in palace itself believed that they couldn't push over thirty.

(Untrue, though some Escanors believed it themselves, only to be proven wrong by Gloria, who let go of that gift her blood gave her too and aged as any other. Her eldest child didn't even seem to be girl of eleven, when her mother's hair turned wholly white and her teeth started falling out, and her gnarled hands were fully dominated by thousands of age spots.)

Phobos held off his sixteenth birthday for more than fifty years, before everybody became convinced Weira would never give birth to living daughter, and they decided that he really wasn't too far young to marry. Still he held adulthood at bay, because he wouldn't be sold like breeding animal, and his mother was kind and wise- she wouldn't give him to an ancient bride, or one who would not be disgusted by thought of laying with boy.

And then Elyon was born, and decades of suffering, of missed chances, of humiliations, turned out to have been in vain.

_Seven hours and twenty three minutes_

What is a witch?

Not the Guardians, no matter what they call themselves. It hurts, as if somebody is drilling through his teeth, to hear them say so. They, strong and righteous and chosen, guided by and empowered by Heart of the world, of **Kandrakar** itself, the heirs of nymphs, warriors and sorceresses unparalleled across reality, so good and pure, they have as much right to that word, as Phobos has right to call himself kind and just and merciful. So what is a witch then?

At it's simplest, oldest, most literal meaning, witch is, depending on who exactly you ask, a superstition, folklore or rare and dangerous kind of sorcerer. Somebody who gained their powers through unholy means, by sacrifice of others and bargains with dark spirits, with unquiet dead, with _kharzaks_, spirits not malicious enough to be banished by salt or prayer, but too cruel and capricious to deserve temples and hymns, or anything else but hesitant sacrifices of blood and desperate begging under shroud of midnight. A magic that most often knows only how to destroy and corrupt, not to guide and keep safe. Somebody who dances with vampires, who sings with rusali, who offers blood and misery to night.

A witch is, when you ask children to explain it, a term painfully obvious. The monster, the villain, the purest, pettiest evil. Ugly old man with tangled dirty beard and curled claws, who lives in the woods, or caves, or in ruined towers, or strange cottages, who steals and eats children and turns people in stone and animals, who tries to trick and kill brave young women who inevitably slay it, or to curse or kidnap young men it envies because of it's beauty. Children know best how to recognize witches, in old men their parents don't call that, who carry with them stink of decades old shame, who are ugly and live alone at edges of villages and are always looked at by suspicion and disgust by their neighbors, and who cry and scream profanities when they are pranked. One who doesn't go to temple services, who doesn't fit in, who never married or sired children.

But then again, witch is something else. A man (young, disrespectful, wily), who is- well not wise, because wisdom is not man's virtue, but who knows more than what he should, and has certain cunning glint in eyes, and is more perceptive than usually assumed. Beautiful, but in a wrong, unacceptable, bad way, shameless, confident, vain, willing to flaunt his face, to show more skin than appropriate, to spread his legs and use his tongue to tempt women he deems useful. A smart, manipulative, conniving gold digger, yet paradoxically unreasonable enough to be wholly driven by his lustful urges.

A man who would lace his wife's perfume with belladonna.

(The first thing you must know, witches are born. You can't be witch if you aren't born hungry.

Second thing you must know, to be true witch you must become one. Like butterfly, you must undergo metamorphosis to become a witch.

Third thing you must know, a witch is made. And to be made, first you must be named as such.

There is a witch on Meridian, and she has been there for many years,hidden, waiting. She wasn't always witch, of course- she had been protector and leader and Mage and servant before, she had been good and servile once, but there was always seed of witch in her soul. And she fed it, and others shied away from it, until she could take lives of so, so many children for sake of her ideal, until she could bind Heart upon Heart, until she could rule the worlds.

The hag gazes upon the boy, and sees herself in him.)

Kaethe had been escorted to dining hall by strange young man who was far too energetic, talkative and attention-grabbing than she thought appropriate for man of royal guard, that she couldn't help feeling offended even if she was sure he didn't mean to be rude. He left her at doors of hall with far too warm and familiar goodbye before leaving, mumbling something about back-up plans in case peppers took hostage, leaving her to quickly reconsider wisdom of ever leaving her province again before she reminded herself that she was going to breakfast, not to execution, and entering the hall.

It was far smaller than she expected, than she remembered. It made sense, of course, given that princess and her foster parents (she referred to them just as her parents, and few people mentioned Alborn and Miriadel adopted, which promptly shocked Kaethe even if she understood the necessity, but since apparently no formal action was taken to make it official, Kaethe had decided to count it as very unconventional form of fosterage). And yet, part of Kaethe had expected chamber large enough to pass as army barracks, with table big enough to seat at least seven branches of family tree.

Table was round, and therefore Kaethe couldn't determine where the head was, and as all chairs were same she was unable to determine which were often used so she could guess which one belonged to queen ( Vivianne could have done that), so she was left to stand and wait until queen Elyon arrived.

She had spent hours debating whether arriving before queen would have been ruder than at same time, because one implied she was once receiving queen and that she felt free to walk around palace as if she belonged there, but other implied that she was close enough with queen to walk side by side with her (_why does any of that matter, for sake of Tidetamer herself_, asked Miach, whose grasp of manners and high society behavior had suffered most significantly during their exile), before she decided to risk it and come first, because anything was better than being late.

Miach wasn't there yet.

It was how things went, how protocol demanded, first sisters then brothers, always. Miriadel was always kind to them, but that was many years ago and she was still military woman- her life was built on strict rules that allowed no deviation, and she would be well within her rights to take offense at seeing queen be snubbed so, especially as she had raised her, as Kaethe had shown up now out of nowhere to demand all sorts of help.

Perhaps he would arrive in time. He was reliable one, her brother.

They could easily explain it. Everybody knew health of men was more fragile, that long journeys exhausted them, that emotional shocks could unbalance humors in their body, that they were bad at adapting to new surroundings, prone to fainting. Kaethe always had to carry smelling salts just in a case.

Queen seemed kind. She would accept it. And so would Miriadel, she likely had to suffer same with Alborn when they moved to Earth.

(Kaethe had to restrain need to run to his rooms, to check if he was still breathing, paranoia crawling under her skin, until she was almost ready to scratch herself just to keep fear at bay).

Still, it would be far better if he came. Better for her nerves, and for them to present unified front, and to stop gossip of scandalized servants ( a man late to meal with queen, that sort of gossip could ruin all of his chances), and he was so good at small talk and queen seemed like sort who would appreciate it. But then, people her age usually did.

(Kaethe and Miach had never been truly sixteen. When war started, and they fled to seek refuge, they had to leave childhood behind, and they did. In span of year, battle after battle, escape after escape, Kaethe jumped from fourteen to twenty two. Escanors always grew fast during wars, because otherwise they didn't grow anymore at all.

After all, each one was potential queen, and there was power even in male blood- the bones of Escanor sons and brothers were some of rarest, and most sough after ingreditents in magic. Take out greatest threats, claim rarest resources and greatest weapons, or at least don't allow them to fall in hands of enemy.

There were dark times, in wars of past, when odds were so horrible that they had to turn to darker magics, to power of the blade and the innocent blood spilled to have chance against tyrants. That was only time when anybody, but most notably nobles and sorcerers- mostly one and the same- prayed they would give birth only to boys.

They say that thousand sons bled out on altars, before Medissa fell.)

Kaethe had to wonder about pace of queen's growth, but she wouldn't dare ask, of course. Was it slightly altered by her time in Meridian? Did she plan to accelerate it until height of her adulthood, or had growing up at Earth stopped chance of that? And if she managed to, how far could she go?

(It was thought by most that Escanors couldn't age beyond thirty and some, which made things awkward when you talked down to somebody you had assumed was three years younger than you but was actually bit older than your mother. There were few who theorized that Escanors could age like normal humans if they wanted to, but Kaethe wasn't sure about it, given that there was only one evidence of that, and _she_ certainly shouldn't be upheld as standard for anything.

After all, who else had ever turned down offers to be the Light of Meridian, Mage, Princess Dowager and Chief High Priestess (seven times!), refused to keep seraglio, even before she married, even after he died, and never remarried, and abandoned life on farm because it was ''too opulent'' and spent centuries after Weira's ascension going on pilgrimages around Meridian and refusing to use magic?

When an Escanor was consumed by funeral pyre, her ashes were placed in tomb alongside her most treasured possessions, and statue of her was erected to stand as memorial of her glory (it always unsettled Kaethe, seeing rows of statues of dead people looking as if they could be her elder sisters). Gloria Escanor had no possessions to bury, and in her will she requested for her ashes to be scattered at sea, and that no tomb should be erected because it was ''wasteful and vain beyond telling, for death is fate of us all, our salvation from this low, filthy world, and to think hour of one's death merits more respect than what is given to mouse or caterpillar is wretched sin.''

Weira didn't have her mother's statue made, nor did she give her opulent tomb filled with mosaics of Gloria's accomplishments and riches to follow her in another life, partially to respect her last wish, partially because no sculptor wanted to be first to make statue of an elderly Escanor- whom nobody had seen in last fifty years, and partially because nobody wanted to see what angry spirit of holy woman looked like. Still, Weira did leave a tiny room for urn and offerings, which was in strange accident that left nobody harmed completely destroyed and buried, and all architects that worked on it received visions that sent them scuttling to closest temple to apply as acolytes.

Kaethe couldn't be sure if any of her cousins had received burial- enemy didn't tend to leave bodies in one piece.)

But that was unimportant, and far too intimate for her to think of, and possibly bit creepy. She had list of far more important things to ask for- pleas from Sisterhood of Concord to be allowed to openly practice in big cities and reestablish their major temples, help with swamp floodings, restoration and rebuilding of villages, way to create fertile soil again, repair of roads, new job opportunities for citizens of southern provinces, establishment of proper hospitals and shipment of medicines for Myrkalian mumps, money and architects and teachers to create new schools for all girls there and programs for ones who missed early years of education, possibly return of Durathar ancestral lands, possibly organization of some memorial for all fallen and unburied in war...

And to manage that all without paperwork.

* * *

_''Help me.'' Boy whispers, and cries, and sings, and says without words, as waves pull him down and down, and stars gaze on him, merciless, uncaring, as water drags him lower and lower, and still he keeps his head above surface, through every other minutes he chokes as waves fill his mouth._

_Phobos observes him from above. Waves are tall, lashing against harsh stone as storm grows, but cliff is taller yet. He will be safe as long as he doesn't stay out until it's too late, as long as he doesn't steer to close to edge. And so he sits on grass, young and insecure, for last frost had melted just day before and winter's effigy was murdered just that morning, and only flowers blooming are snowdrops._

_(And far away, as far as death is from mind of child, and as close as hunger is to a witch, in land of Bleeding Stone black roses bloom, though there is no sunlight there, and nothing but blood to drink. They bloom, and they never wither, or so stories claim.)_

_''Save me.'' Boy demands, and mumbles, and begs, and says without words, and waves spare him not. Foam and bubbles cover his pale eyes, and cold water slithers over his skin, as spotless and white as marble statues in royal crypts, as pale and dead as moon, as cold and fragile as first snow of winter, and there is something that may peace or resignation on his face._

_Phobos watches him him with barely contained curiosity. Like true scientist, dissecting bugs and frogs, he gazes at boy who should be , he is dying, and water is filling his lungs, all right, and if it continues like this he will be pulled down by undercurrent, and his lips are as purple as dusk, as bruises, but he isn't flailing, screaming, trying to fight the current, and he is sinking slowly, and his voice is soft and calm one moment then as full of hurt as if he swallowed broken glass, and Phobos hears him perfectly, as if he is speaking in prince's ear._

_(The boy had died long, long ago, and Phobos isn't stupid enough to fail to see what kind of spirit it is.)_

_''Spare me.'' Boy calls, and states, and pleas, and says without words, and he is looking at stars, whose design cannot be changed, who are pitiless and unmoving, and his long, long hair, black as shadow of raven, flows on surface, tangled in so many knots, and who knows for how many centuries he has spoken those same words, and nobody heard, or they did and pretended that it was just hallucination, then prayed to their foremothers and sprinkled salt over shoulders._

_Phobos isn't kind, and he'd prefer not to ruin his new clothes, partially because he likes them and partially because priestesses will already be angry enough that he snuck off in middle of night again, but there are things proper noble boys never do and Phobos still dreams of being priest sometimes, and so he jumps, and is blessed enough not to break his bones. Water is so frigid that he feels it in core of his bones, and waves rise high above his head and toss him like toy, and boy growls and jumps at his back, wrapping it's smooth, frozen hands around his throats, and he is cackling, heavier then guilt, but Phobos is obstinate little creature, and he will give boy salvation he prays for. Boy pulls him by hair, and waves crash down on them, and still Phobos swims._

_( He finds his way to shore, though water and boy try to pull him down, and fail, not that Phobos expected anything else. He carries boy to shore, where shroud and incense are waiting. Priestess will shout at him, then fear how queen will react, how his bride-to-be will reacts as he comes down with pneumonia, but Phobos doesn't care, even covered in bruises, even soaked, even with water trailing down his locks like rain. He holds boy as he cries, as Phobos builds funeral pyre for him, as he makes offerings of salt and oil and fruit and wine for deceased, and he shakes and shivers and almost falls apart, but he goes on, singing funeral hymns until his throat is raw and voice lost, until soul is laid at peace, until he blacks out smirking, knowing that none of priestesses would have done this good job.)_


	6. Reasoning

It walked.

Slow and alone it was, yet still it moved. It's legs were inert and nearly dead, and seemed to ache with need to stop, to burrow down in soft and sweet soil and root themselves to this spot till end of days, and yet it moved, through each motion was a battle. It seemed that it was a question of but a moment, a second when it would fall down and break, never to rise again, and yet it stalked through night and bushes, bound by it's master's call even as each atom screamed out.

It was not question of inner conflict,of rebellion, of futile fight against one's creator- not that it would have helped. For though he sat behind bars and beneath ground, beyond cold stone and running water and deep wards, away for years and miles, though his reserves were nearly emptied out, though his magic had atrophied and shriveled like wheatstalk denied sun and wind, Whisperers were his masterpiece, brought in being and formed by his hand and word, filled with his own lifeforce, and they would come when he called, even if world stopped turning. He had made sure of that.

Minions were entertraining, but risky. Crushing somebody's sense of importance, forcing them to blow until their kneecaps cracked, watching dawning realization that you hold their life in your hands, the futile anger and crushing despair... But as it was unfortunately proven to him time and time again, such situation was not sustainable without possesing ultimate power needed to enforce it. Only the power of Heart could ensure that they would have no choice but to surrender. Only power of Heart could reach in innermost depths of a person and pluck out any seed of rebellion.

His Whisperers weren't minions. They were masterpieces. They possesed no thought and will of their own, and thus they couldn't betray him, oppose him, fail him. They were perfect combination of gardening, art and earth magic, unmatched by any thaumathurge or alchemist in Meridian's history, a work of genius, fruit of years of backbreaking work!

There were so many rumors about them, and none came close to truth. A victims of Phobos, or predecessors of black rose, experiments, men who earned his ire and were turned inwood, in revenants. A malicious species that dwelled in shadows, with whom Phobos made treaties to take over Meridian. A band of malicious spirits, who died alone in woods, whom Phobos offered sacrifices for sake of power.

Phobos let them fester and spread, though it didn't change much- still, it was amusing, hearing all that nonsense, and fear it inspired, and perhaps somebody would be stupid enough to capture a Whisperer and lead it to their hiding place, sure they could extract some information from Phobos's spy, or at least get rid of one of his agents, giving him opening into their plans.

People beware his rosebushes and clinging vines, and tall and thin creatures that trail his halls. They don't pay attention to what thes say, sleeping beneath old oak, next to cabbage patch, as they crawl through dying bushes, as they pick strawberries. The things inside, perfect instruments of sap and green, filled with his magic, let him hear and see all their dirty secrets.

But, unfortunately, even best work requires mainteance. The greatest sword in world will rust just like ordinary knife if you don't care for it. It required upkeep, attention, fuel. For years this Whisperer had been losing and wasting energy without getting anything in return,constantly hiding itself, risking dissolving into it's hiding place.

So it crawls and drags itself, prowling through woods, avoiding settlements best it can, stopping by rivers and basking in sunlight when possible, taking nutrients from ground. It is easy now, for woods are deep and lonely, but soon there will be villages, and towns, and plains and meadows, and it will have to move at night, and use glamour, and be very, very careful.

Above, in nest at pine branch where it is currently resting, chicks are crying. Pale and soft, their flesh bare and wrinkled, innocent creatures new to world, squaking as they wait for their mother to fly and bring them worms. It would be so easy to reach out, to grasp them in Whisperer's hand, to hear crunch of thin, tiny bones and wet, popping sound... But Phobos was never one to waste time on mercy.

He has no thorns here, but wooden arm is good enough. The green light shines as silence replaces whining, and his Whisperer moves so much easier and elegant, with these drops of vitality feeding it.

* * *

Once upon a time, so long ago that it seemed to her as if it was another life ( and was, literally, another world, fact to which she was still adjusting), Elyon had been a thirteen year old girl, and believed she knew all there was to know about awkwardness and discomfort, and once she got to that glorious age of sixteen, when she would blossom in a true adult and be allowed to do anything she wanted, and a whole world would make sense.

Now, when years had passed, with enough adventures to fill lifetimes, and she was none the wiser, but much more confused, she realized that truly those may have been the very best years of her life.

Well, she was being slightly unfair here. Very unfair, given that Kaethe and Miach didn't look any more comfortable than her- in fact, they made her seem positively relaxed and sure of herself. Still, having a breakfast with distant relatives she never knew existed a week ago was awkward enough even without all distance between them. Kaethe stood in her seat like a statue above grave, and Miach seemed to be on the edge, as if he commited high treason by arriving five minutes late.

'' You could stand over here? If you want to, that is.'' Elyon said, slightly unsure, and glad that her words didn't wobble as her lips did, and that acoustics of room carried over well. She wasn't sure how she was supposed to interpret fact that her cousins chose to sit twenty meters away from her, didn't dare look her in eyes, and seemed pertrubed at suggestion.

'' ... Are you sure, Your Majesty?'' Miach asked in tone Elyon knew well from her school days, one you used when teacher or group project leader uttered out a complete nonsense that would result in a complete debacle and also made you seriously consider replacing them with half-asleep pig to raise overall efficiency of group, but you didn't dare openly voice your complaints for justified fear they would throw you out of window.

''Yes?'' It hindsight, it seemed to possibly have been a bad thing to say, if way Miach blushed and Kaethe seemed ready to start hyperventilating (prevented only by self-control as tight and strong as steel cable) was any indication. Behind her, her mother coughed.

'' I am afraid that this is our fault, Lady Kaethe. Between restoration projects, lack of occasions and, everything in between, palace protocols have unfortunately been pushed quite low on list of priorities.'' She explained and Elyon hoped her face didn't go as red as she thought it did, because of course she would find way to commit some grave faux pas moment she opened hermouth.

'' No, it makes sense, madam Miriadel. We should have expected so, it is only reasonable after all. We were just, ah, so stunned by queen's generosity, that we forgot not everybody had to manage hideout under, well, somebody like our father.'' Kaethe said, gesticulating with her hand slightly, body tense and stifled as doll, yet underneath it impressive river of energy seemed to flow, and her voice tapered off quietly near the end, into something shivering and melancholic.

''The palace used to have strict rules for seating arrangements, among other things. The queen would be surrounded by her parents, then her siblings, followed by children, consort, and rest of relatives in descending order.'' Her father whispered, and Elyon understood, and restrained urge to curse herself. She should have known, after all- it made sense, after all, for royalty to be so complicated. No wonder Kaethe, who if Elyon got it right was great-great-grandaughter, or something, of queen Weira's aunt, looked ready to faint when Elyon put forward her offer.

''True. Father was insisted that even if we had to hide underneath the swamp, we should preserve our sense of decorum. He had trained in soldiers in using napkins and appropriate cutlery for each meal. They were more afraid of him than of being caught.'' Elyon chuckled at Miach's words, but thought she wanted to know more, didn't dare ask. She had quite the good guess what happened to their father, and didn't want to bring up bad memories.

''So, how did you arrive?'' Elyon asked. She checked maps last night, and southern provinces seemed to be too distant for comfortable journey. She was not surprised that they hadn't contacted her sooner. Even years after, well, everything, there were still regions struggling to reestablish structure, free themselves of Phobos's retainers, or send missive to palace. Freeing a whole planet of tyranny was rather hard, even after evil sorcerer draining it was locked up-for third time.

''We traveled by road, mostly, riding horses and wagons. When we got close enough, I opened a fold to get us through.'' Kaethe answered, thankfully less tense. It was neutral start to conversation, a rather boring question with obvious answer, but it was a start.

( One of surprises of adulthood- more and more Elyon recognized worth of the small talk.)

''Did you come alone?'' That was, she supposed, next best question. It seemed strange, for there were only two of them, but then they also seemed too wary people to traverse unsure roads without backup.

''No. We arrived with a small retinue of few friends and comrades. Fellow leaders, you see. Four soldiers, two merchants, one priestess. There are few more remaining at home base, but they didn't want to disturb you, my queen.'' Kaethe spoke out, still afraid to meet her eyes. Elyon was still young queen, but she ahd dealt with this situation before.

Rebellions needed more than just magic and warriors. They were composed of spies and smugglers and saboteurs, of people who provided homes and food and tools, who looked out for rumors and patrols and children of well-known enemies of Phobos hidden away. They were made up of former officials and merchants, of doctors and farmers, of poets and clergy.

All of them operated by make-shift councils that squabbled and managed to function, trying to help people, yet also protect their own interests. A former soldier used and ready to fight Phobos's forces, and farmer who had to produce food to feed them all while paying tally to tyrant had rather different ideas on how they should proceed with their plans.

( The rebel cell closest to the palace had no such problem. Nerissa, disguised as Mage, was their sole master, and for years she perfectly guided and organized the rebellion, ensuring that all elements worked in harmony to produce most beneficial results. Elyon had read her letters and accounts, handed off to julian and others, and was unsure whether she should have been terrified or impressed.)

And, sooner or later, all of them would find their way to palace, ready to offer their allegiance and beg for aid. And always they would send in only one representative, or two, to butter her up as they arrived one by one, with more demands and more problems. Cynical part of her questioned whether that was only reason Kaethe and Miach reached out to her, to play on kinship, however distant.

Another part of her felt afraid and ashamed, that her people felt need to resort to such schemes, as if she would reject them ( she dreaded day when she would have to, when toil and resources such large scale restoration demanded became too high).

''Let them all come by tonight. The ones who accompanied you, and ones who stayed back home. I would be glad to meet them all.'' It would be a headache, because those things often meant dealing with fifty or so people with various demands, pertaining to different sectors, from theaters to agriculture, who couldn't seem to decide whether to treat her as a child or goddess in flesh.

But it was worth it, for stunned yet hopeful look in eyes of her cousins, and slight proud smiles at faces of her parents.

* * *

_Six hours_

It is warm in his cell.

He hates that, hates the oppressive, sticky heat that permeates this prison, that weights down on him and brings sweat and annoyance, that makes him want to sleep and scratch himself until he flies off his own skin. He has no idea how it is possible for underground to be so warm (can't be torches, maybe magic, maybe underground hot springs, forgotten heating system?) but if he figures out he will get rid of it. Dungeons should be cold.

Cold is good. Cold is painful, and cruel, and it makes men go mad, and it gives focus. Cold is sharp, it cuts through core of you, tears you apart, and lets you cut too. Warmth just consumes, just steals.

(Meridian was always too fond of fire for his tastes.)

_Six hours and twelve minutes_

He thought he might choke on his own breaths.

That was good. That was proper, the tiny disgusting detail that drove prisoners to despair over years. Air was stale and stuffy, and filled with awful smells, the stench that sunk in and would never leave, and it seemed to be old, exhausted, uses by his mouth again and again, so much that it was now dirty. He could almost taste dust on it, and was sure almost all oxygen was exhausted.

He never thought that he would miss wind so much.

_Six hours and twenty three minutes_

He could say that stone of his dungeon was admirable.

It was green, which was always nice. But smooth and hard, such that it hurt to sit or sleep too long on it, such that only great magic of Earth could have carved out cells and chambers and corridors (sometimes, he watched them, watched corners and edges and they seemed too smooth and subtle, as if they weren't cut, but as if ground folded to let them come in being.)

It feels strange. It feels as if it is more than stone, like gem possessed, like bones filled with malicious spirit, like something that might have once lived, and might still be woken up. Something that might be used, something that might be fun to research.

He stares not in his reflection at wall, and thinks how deep roots would have to reach.

_Six hours and thirty four minutes_

Stop it stop stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it please...

The dribbling, the rush of weterfall, the drop after drop falling down, the river lazily flowing down, the vapor rising, the draftness in air, the mold that grows, the wetness of his clothes, stop it all, please!

_Eighteen hours and forty six minutes_

He will take it when he escapes. All the magic, all quintessence, all energy keeping him imprisoned, he will swallow it up. And then he shall reach out and drain every single guard and prisoner and it-it will be-, no, it won't be enough, but it will have to do.

_Nineteen hours_

If only he had his spinning wheel here.

It was a good one, maybe even the best in the whole Meridian. It wasn't pretty, not at all, there were peasant devices more beautiful than it, but it didn't need to be pretty. Devoid of elaborate carvings, of tiny figurines, of beautiful paint, of skillful sigils and verses carved in wood by talented hands, unlike those possesed by his many cousins, who bought the most exquisite ones and left them to gather dust once they outgrew their lessons, focusing instead on history and diplomacy, on riding and swordfighting, on politics and art, on their letters and magic.

The wood was plain, and unadorned, but there were no cracks not chips at it. It was made from a good tree, a healthy and imposing thing that grew deep in forests that saw many generations of Escanors rise and crumble, in sort of place where wolves didn't dare tread ( wolves were no more fearsome nor cruel than any other animal- in that sort of place, not a thing dared enter, not mouse or caterpillar, not boar or bear, so phrase was bit dishonest to them... but Phobos was always soft for poetic imagery). It was tall and wide, and it's core was as dark as shadows it learnt to prosper in.

It hurt to cut it down. Not only because it took him whole day, because by end of it he had collapsed and his hands seemed to bleed, not because axe almost slipped out of his hands and chopped off his feet, not because every muscle and each of his bones, down to marrow, burned from overuse of magic, not because he felt hollow and broken, not because hag spent entire time ignoring him, only to glance and scoff and roll eyes and return to tanning hides and skinning rabbits.

(What sight they must have been, a tree taller and wider than three Galhots fallen upon ground, the boy with hair longer than he was tall twitching upon ground, the crone that bore more resemblance to mummy than human sitting in grass and dust, cursing rabbits.)

It felt almost wrong to cut down tree like that, ancient and imposing, strong and beautiful. It felt wrong to deprive it of centuries more it might experience, to deprieve forest of it's presence, to end such fantastic creature. It felt like sacrilege, worse (and harder, of course) thank kinslaying.

But that was life, and it had to be done. To live, just to meagerly exist, you had to crush others. Food, clothes, the barest neccesities- all of them required sacrifice of other creatures. Only children refused to accept that. Only idiots and weaklings failed to see that.

It surprised him how pale inner wood was, compared to bark. Oh, it was deep and dark brown, all right, but not even near shade of it's skin, the near black of old, clotted blood. From trunk he carved and shaped a spindle and wheel- rough to touch, and of wild, uncouth shape, like unfinished product, like a figurine, child's toy meant to represent tool, rather than tool itself. But it stood stable and balanced, and thread it produced was finer than on other spindles, or so it might have seemed to his tired eyes and cold fingers.

He hid it in his chambers, in secret cupboard, further concealed underneath layers and webs of glamour, his materials hidden and procured with great care. Spinning was, after all, one of greatest of Seven Blessings, if not the greatest. There were men allowed to write, and read, but secret of spinning was too sacred and important. It was task every young lady knew, even if she never excelled, even if she hated it, because that was part and fact of life- the acknowledgement that they and their family would be nothing, would be nowhere if not for sake of their foremothers, who sat for long hours spinning and weaving and sewing clothes needed to separate them from beasts, to keep them safe from cold, to show them their love.

His mother and aunts and cousins, they were bad spinners, whole lot of them. Perhaps they were all right, once, passable even, but centuries and decades have passed and they haven't touched spindle in years, and so they forgot, and whatever ability they once had soon atrophied. Oh, how Gloria Escanor would weep and scowl, she who would work tirelessly at her spindle for days, not eating, speaking, or sleeping, producing such fine thread that cities could be bought with strand, producing so much that whole villages could be clothed, ignoring gratitude and awe to continue spinning.

The true masters of craft were as rare and respected as greatest sorcerers, could feed their families lavishly for years by themselves. When, during his rule, winters got really bad, and palace needed more funding and taxes wouldn't work (for men hid last of their coins, no matter how well their houses were researched), Phobos would take some of his thread, and send disguised spies to sell it, and grudgingly take money.

It was necessary, yes. That didn't mean he had to like fact that his hard work was wasted on those pests.

(Far away, so manny summers away, boy stands silent with cloudy eyes, and softly drags his fingers over stump left behind as hag frowns and shakes her head.)

_One day and four minutes_

He would need tools when he escaped.

It will be embarassing, him, the prince of Escanors, the tyrant of Meridian, of those who sling fire from their hands and fly above battlefields raining down death and devastation, reduced to crutches meant for children, failed appretinces and lying hedge-sorceresses.

But, ah, we all do what we must to survive. As long as nobody is there to see, to know the humiliation, it can be ignored and forgotten.

Potions will be first. They are, all things considered, easy to make, and in right hands deadly. Resources are abundant, and on top of his head he can already think of at lest three dozen useful ones. It will take some time, particularly more unstable ones, what with harvesting and incubating, but he was always good at it, at taking leaves and roots and flowers and turning them in powders and salves and tinctures, easy to mask as teas or poultices, dragging out magic from wood and herbs.

It would mean that he would need additional tools- cauldron, and mortar and pestle, and bottles, but all that could be procured, even if he had to lower himself down to level of common petty crook. He would need to set up a lair for himself- a cave, or abandoned cottage, or clearing in woods, or ruined manor (anything but tower), and there was only so much he could carry on himself, so he would need to plan more elaborately, calmer, better.

Still. It would be welcome reprieve from all...this. Something to busy himself with, to keep his mind occupied as his body and magic recuperated and healed.

( It would not be fun. It would not be anything like when, so many summers ago, a boy threw ingreditents in bubbling pot and watched liquid inside shine and change colour as hag cackled and quoted verses from Earth.)

_Day and thirty six minutes_

Staff. He would have to procure staff.

They were, he had to admit, useful- even if they certainly originated as way for grumpy old sorceresses to flaunt their wealth with elaborate and uniquely designed walking sticks that had bigger reach needed to hit reasonably annoyed students, no matter what anybody else claimed.

It would be troublesome to sneak around with one, and troublesome to find ingreditents-after all, there was much more needed to make magical staff than a branch and carving knife. Right wood would need to be chosen ( rosewood for him, because there was never any other choice), some innately magical artefact to serve as source, a gem or something like that, there would need to be rites necessary to ensure staff could conduit and recharge and absorb... Amulet or jewelry would be more practical, but harder to obtain, more limited in use, and easier to steal.

There was reason why Nerissa put her Hearts in staff, instead of wearing them at throat. For some unknown reason, staffs were best forwidespread and nuanced magic use, and least likely to turn at their owner. Many theses have been written on why by thaumaturges and Mages who had nothing betetr to do with their lives and time.

It could also double as scepter, once he was finished with his plans. Yes, he could already see it, the handle and ornaments, brought in world without knife or cut, his song molding shape of wood to his liking...

_Day and two hours_

It seems that, to his great chagrin, he would have to get mirror.

He resists impulse to grit teeth together and hit wall until his knuckles bleed. But it is necessary- his scrying sand was costly, frivolous thing, and he won't have way to get it while hiding. And only reason why polished walls with blurry reflection works, he is sure, is because of magic imbibed in them.

Another curse of his birth. Some Escanors could discover secrets of bygone ages with aid of incense, or be warned of future threats through dreams, but what did he get saddled with? Reflective surfaces, only way for him to spy and scry at faraway places and people beyond his reach- and emptied as he was, his reach won't be far. To thinkt that only few years ago he could spy on Guardians themselves across veil..

Perhaps he could do with pool of water. A calm, pure pool, empty of life, like it was made for seers and clerics, perfect for divination...

(-And face inside, gaunt and stricken, the terrible eyes he cannot gaze in upon it, the veil of wild and too long hair...

-They called him vain, him who had cast out all mirrors...

\- There were stories in Meridian, of witch who crawled in shadows and slit open children to find whatever knowledge she sought in their entrails, but who would believe something like that...)

_Day and four hours_

Athame.

He would need athame. But of course! Of course, of course, of course! One of most important things he could possibly need! Of course, how could he forget it!

What is magic without stabbing, and cutting, and blood, root of all?

_Day and six hours and thirteen minutes_

He will need minions and servants, unfortunately.

Not ones he used previous time. No, that would be madness, insisting upon strategy that didn't work out previous three times. People couldn't be relied on. People were cowards, and fools, and traitors, and risk. He will have to travel far, and gather his familiars, wake and feed as many of his Whisperers as he can, and perhaps he will have to make bargains, to invoke _kharzaks_, the restless dead things, visit small and fast and cold river that has no name, that holds unwelcome things...

_Day and seventeen hours_

And of course, there were always the Moons.

_Two days and three hours and five minutes_

His first bride is a girl year older than him, and three decades younger. She is some distant cousin, descendant of bastard half-sister of his great-great-grandmother. A single drop of Escanor blood, so diluted that she is only one to show magic and age strangely in generations, and that supposedly gives her right to _his_ throne.

Phobos doesn't try to get to know her. He doesn't want and he won't no matter how much mother pressures him to try. He already knows all he needs to judge whether she is worthy to come in consideration as bride. And answer is obvious.

She can't stop pulling his hair, and she is incredible rider, and gets along great with both his and hers family, and she is obsessed with being clean and smelling nice- annoying creature bathes at least twice a day and water always must be perfect, he can hear servants grumbling, and she always carries bags of smelling herbs and he doesn't like how she looks at his flowers.

Lotions and perfumes and pomades and smelling pouches under pillow, oh my! How hard to choose, which to lace with belladona first.

_Two days and three hours and thirty nine minutes_

His second bride is duchess, twenty years old- it is not too much of difference, and he will grow in it by time it is confirmed, mother tells him.

She tells him she likes how silent and compliant he is, and already makes plans for changes she will bring on as a queen (it is rare, but not unheard, for daughter-in-law to inherit, and hold power for granddaughter). She drinks a lot, her breath always carrying stink of beer and spicy wine in equal volumes. She also has many enemies, and so most poisons are out of question, as she is already used to them. But he gets his chance when she catches flu.

He is almost caught, and put through truly annoying and humiliating procedure as they try to determine whether he is ensorcelled, or blackmailed by one of ehr rivals. The hag mocks and growls at him for following seven years. His second mariticide and he already garnered attention.

But then, he was just being obedient boy-consort. How was he supposed to know, much less dare, to tell her no when she asked for medicine after drinking herself numb?

_Two days and four hours and fifty six minutes_

His third wife is fifteen, and dreams of being general, but "I will have to settle for queenhood, I guess ha ha ha,... wow you are really tough one-don't worry, that won't stop me, I will make you smile, just you wait!." She calls him fragile and sweet, and she promises to protect him and cheer him up, and tells him it is _quaint_ how he tries to draw.

What a _tragedy_ when she dies of frostbite.

_Three days and seven minutes_

His fifth bride is sixteen, and very tall, and she is a magical genius, and makes sure everybody knows it, which is understandable, not that he has anything against it on principe but it is supremely annoying, especially when she uses magic to lock his doors and to spy on him. He misses twenty three lessons hag never goes back on.

(He doesn't get startled when she asks him about spinning, and painting and things he does in library and gardens, when he thought he was alone.)

She is also openly irreverent and condescending towards priesthood, which is often deserved to point but unsightly from one proclaiming herself devout believer. If she was one who derided all beliefs as superstition, and maintained that spirits didn't exist, he would bear it easier than dealing with this woman who buys supposed holy relics like cheap souvenirs and is obsessive about attending each service of Sisterhood.

Phobos is thankful for that, though, as she is one bride he can complain about to his mother.

"What would grandmother say, were she alive to see that?" He asks, pouting, his face perfect demure, uptight little prince, and he can see memories flash behind his mother's face,of Gloria Escanor and her wrinkles and spotted, arthritis-ridden hands that never stopped digging and spinning and cleaning, Gloria who gave all she had to poor before she retreated to die alone in cave like hermit.

His bride goes to travel through cursed mountains, despite warnings of local priestess, and when no news come back Weira is as quick to blame it on angry spirits as on hungry wolves.

_Three days and fifty four minutes_

His seventh bride is a shrine attendant, nineteen, having studied in Surenya's temple alongside him, chosen, he thinks, because his mother thinks that way he will give up on dreams of joining religious order (especially Obsidian Scribes), if he had somebody of similar temperament with him. She dreams about being Eldest of Sisters of Concord, but when presented with chance at throne, takes it with but a moment of hesitation.

She patronizes him every time she talks with him, and offers him to explain lessons he already learnt and passed with stellar results, to great consternation of his teachers and temple's head, and whenever he says something she "corrects him" by saying same thing formulated differently- in way that makes it sounder more impressive and mystical to dumb peasant masses, but vague in way it is technically incorrect. But, well, that is Sisterhood of Concord for you.

She tells him to avoid fasting, so he wouldn't ruin his pretty figure more than he already has. She chokes on broken glass.  
_  
Three days and hour and one minute_

His ninth bride is twenty three, because list of brides capable of being queen, willing to marry him despite ''curse'' and close to him in age is getting rather short. She a minor baroness who proved herself by inventing way to revolutionize agriculture, if he understands correctly, though Phobos would never take her advice, because he cares about his garden in long run, unlike some people..

She controls what he eats, because he needs to be healthy, to be more slender and sweet, and calls him ugly words when he shows skin in public, saying it is inappropriate when he acts coquettish by rolling his sleeves, like a whore, and doesn't allow him to work in garden, because he knows nothing about tending land, even though she is one who can't say what soil components are necessary for best blooming of flowers they have.

She was tall and strong and beautiful, even Phobos had to admit that. Arms like tree trunks, muscles big enough to pull up a wagon with one hand, it was easy to see why all his peers drooled after her.

Honestly, if there was some sort of competition for mysterious deaths, hers would have taken all awards.. Even Phobos couldn't believe it when he saw the results. Getting woman like that to "hang herself" was an epic deed.

_Three days and seven hours and eleven minutes_

His thirteenth bride was thirty three, and mother stopped apologizing for it, because she thought he had gotten used, even when he scowled and tried to refuse her to touch him.

A cheerful, loyal, sweet, kind lady in waiting that had worn her way in his mother's graces, an affable and compassionate and gracious woman that even Phobos couldn't complain against- or so Weira thought. She was good actress, he had to give it to her- way she tricked her mother in signing over estates halfway across Meridian, and made it seem like Weira's idea was almost admirable. If they weren't to be married, he might even have grown to tolerate her.

But everybody had to posses some standards, after all, and he supposed it wasn't strange that woman of such high position possesed honest morals and strict ethic code. She was wholly against deviancy, and it was bad enough when she found out his hair couldn't be cut, but when she caught him spinning...

They never got all pieces out of that deep, deep well.

(His mother said nothing, when she was informed that he had refused to go back home, that he had grown attached and fragile and emotional, and too weak to journey or part from his marital home.

The hag said nothing, when she saw bruises, but she applied cool salves smelling of various herbs to them,and sat besides him in silence, hand upon his hair, eyes pinpoints of darkness.)

* * *

''Is that everybody?'' Galgheita asked, and internally congratulated herself on managing to come off as genuiely inquisitive, instead of rude and judgemental. It was admittedly unusual amount of visitors, but not even close to what she would expect leaders of rebel cell to look like, nor a retinue she would expect to accompany such important nobility (the only gentry to survive, perhaps!), but well, it wasn't like old days. She knew that, yet having spent years on Earth, having escaped the wars that followed, the reign of terror, the riots, the cleansing of traitors Phobos undertook, she was still sometimes quite surprised and unsettled to see whole wings of castle abandoned and unused (and moss and flowers that made their home there), instead of bustling with servants and visitors and ministers, like bees in hive.

''Well, almost. There is one more left. I suggest you prepare yourself.'' Melissa said, and before Galgheita could ask, the fold in space _screeched._

It seemed as if it was coughing, crying, the sharp and wheezy sound it let out as it grew pale, blue light bleeding in milky white as it's glow intensified, brighter and somehow more contained, colder. The wormhole in front of them stretched, like a sock you were trying to push too big leg in, letting out sound like wind rattling branches.

And then **she** stepped through, like an ancient beast freed from glacier, and what could they all do but stare.

This, Galgheita was sure, had to be most handsome woman she had ever seen. Her face could have graced covers of Vogue, and she would have been legend amond Earth's supermodels for centuries to come had they seen her. It was perfectly clear and sculpted, something that should only exist on statues and temple murals, ideal of beauty brought in flesh, and she could only imagine how it seemed to people around her, who had never known of greatly changed makeup covered faces (what strange world, where women painted and contoured their faces, she always thought!) and airbrushed photos, and were completely unused to faces that didn't have some form of acne scars or broken noses, or pearly teeth or finely curled eyebrows that, somehow, were completely natural.

Now, other things couldn't have passed for attractive on Earth, except for some clearly superior men who were in possession of good taste. The woman was tall, taller than anybody else, taller than any galhot Galgheita had ever met. She had to be three meters tall, surely, and Galgheita knew she couldn't pass through doors meant for servants without lowering almost in half. Her shoulders were wide and her arms bulging with muscles. She could see form as strong and shaped as that of a world-class swimmer champion ( Galgheita was big fan of Olympics), and her palms had to be strong and big enough to crush somebody's head. Dressed in armor of steel, sword at side, she was already sure this woman made bulk of their rebel cell's warriors. In fact, she almost felt sorry for Phobos's forces.

Her colouring was strange. She had a pale skin, skin that made milk and porcelain seem dark, skin white as moonlight shining upon corpses in snow, that seemed translucent, such that Galgheita was sure she could glimpse veins underneath. Her eyes were mild, soft blue that seemed fragile and distant, like thin ice upon deep pond beneath lovely morning in early spring, and cruel, careless grey, like dry stones beneath a stormcloud, and Galgheita averted her gaze, sure she would drown and break in them, and they would not care. Her hair was neatly, sternly tied in thick braid that hung below her shoulderblades, slick and dark like raven feathers upon moonless midnight, and all her armor was gray, shining and cold, as if she feared and held distaste for all color.

And then, Galgheita noticed few things, and realized what sort of creature stood before her.

She noticed lips, set in heartless frown, that were black and periwinkle and purple, lips colour of frostbite.

She noticed that woman didn't breathe, nor did she blink,and that for whole time her strange, wide eyes stared at Melissa with resolution and dedication that nothing human could match, and she noticed how there was no emotion on woman's face, how her features stood drawn and sealed as if she had forgotten how to use them.

She noticed how woman stood, stoic and umoving, still as statue, and fact that each of her movements seemed stiff and unnatural, as if her ligaments weren't working, as if her joints refused to work, because only will and compulsion and royal magic animated it.

''It is called Protector. Lady Deirdre made it before her death, instructed it to keep us safe. Well, mostly Miach, but it will work for others too. A bit rough, given it was improvised, but works rather well, and easy to manage.'' Melissa said, and Galgheita let out gasp.

It had been years since she had seen a true royal revenant. They were hard, exquisite works, spirits and guardians formed from shreds of other souls, centered around single purpose. Power and delicacy it took to make one, let one so obviously advanced and mighty as this one... Galgheita could barely imagine it, and she had served under queen Weira herself, the Light of Meridian, Ever-Bright Laughter, daughter of Gloria the Uncrowned, Last Jewel of Escanors.

They were destroyed, alongside most sorceresses capable of performing such feats, centuries of work and effort and accomplishment wiped out, until only one remained. The Tracker, born from murder of dozens of frenzied hunting hounds, unearthed from crypts that survived purge following Age of Medissa, or created by Phobos himself, depending on whom you asked, his ghastly, rotten form either lack of ability, or left intentionally, to scare rebels when it was set on their trail.

But this... This was something else. This was something pure, a sentinel born from wishes of thousand victims to defend their homes and families, shaped by Escanor mistress of magic to protect her children and people. It was magnificent, and wonderful, and almost holy.

''Well, you don't see things like that everyday. Not sure how smart it is bringing her over- lads will swoon and faint upon sight of such specimen.'' Commented one of guards to Galgheita's right, her smirk very wide as several of her compatriots lowered gazes and tried to hide blush (Raythor remained reasonable, thank god), while others scoffed and eyed Protector from corner of their eyes, insecurity and jealousy flashing in their gazes.

''Oh, don't worry about that. They will learn. It was a last second work, so while it is powerful and incredibly good at its function, of course, it isn't very delicate and subtle. Doesn't talk, or register anything outside of commands. And whatever you do, for sake of your foremother's foremother, don't let it handle any glass or porcelain or anything such. And if you see it swinging hands, run.'' Melissa said, in tone that spoke of intimate and painful experience with subject.

Galgheita believed her. In fact, she already began to calculate how fast she can get all vases and decorations out of corridors a Protector might be walking through.

* * *

_He will show her!_

_How dare she? Who does she think she is? What gives her right? That wretched, awful, stupid, horrible woman- oh, he wil show her, yes, he will show her, he will show them all, yes oh they will see, all those fools, all those pathetic mongrels, he will make sure they never, never make same mistake, they will all pay!_

_He can hear her. Oh yes, he can. House is silent but for her gawking and laughing, all others gone and now it is only two of them, the lucky couple. He can feel her gloating, that waste of air, that disgusting useless fool, that ogre! She will make him happy, she will make him content, will she? How dare she presume his wants, his needs! Oh, she will see!_

_He is nothing like her, yes that is right. He is not as helpless or dull, and he has everything he needs right now, here. He is more powerful than she will ever be, a single hair on his head worth more than her entire family, a word from him can devastate and ruin flesh worse than her sword, she is nothing but a bug compared to him, that arrogant, conceited thief. She will see, they all will see, mother and her knights and cousins and all fools, what happens when they try to tame him! No matter what they do later, let them try, let them disown him, proclaim him mad and aberrant, he knows there is no law that can dare hold him accountable!_

_'''_ _Husband, are you awake? I brought you a dinner. Please open the door._

_Phobos? Answer me, please, I am sorry for last night._

_Phobos, are you feeling better, I can hear you...''_

_His final bride speaks, her last words (but not last sounds, oh no, not for long while) as she knocks on doors like manic madwoman she is, daring to think she is worthy of receiving acknowledgemnt from him, and Phobos hears door being unlocked and turns to face his last bride with sweet smile as his hands glow and smell of roses feels air..._


End file.
